


And I Would Do It Again

by Kay_kat



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gunshot Wounds, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Nightmares, Post Season 4, Whump, graphic depictions of blood and injury, some strong language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25767199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kay_kat/pseuds/Kay_kat
Summary: “And I would do it again, and again. Don’t you know that Detective?”It feels like so very long ago since he told her that. A promise that he would shield her body with his own,sacrificehimself for her, over and over again. No matter the consequence to his own life.And so, when Chloe finds herself in a seemingly inescapable situation, staring down the barrel of a gun as she counts each second like it’s her last, she should remember one thing.Her partner is always,always, a Devil of his word.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 205
Kudos: 633





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdvanceD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdvanceD/gifts).



> Hey again! This started off as a prompt fic as part of the prompts for smiles project by the fabulous NotOneLine, but I kind of couldn't stop myself writing (I also admit that it got a tad angstier than I anticipated aha). So this is a completed work and I will be posting Friday, Sunday, Wednesday, over the next two weeks (just in time to finish before S5 drops!)
> 
> The prompt from @aadvanceD666 on Twitter: "Lucifer somehow injures his devil wings, and Chloe takes care of him." 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_“This is how it ends.”_

The last thought to grace her mind is not a happy one. It’s a simple, inescapable truth.

_She is going to die here._

There’s no time to sugar-coat it, no time to react, despite the way the world around her seems to fall into slow motion. She knows exactly what’s going to happen but is powerless to do anything to prevent it.

As she stands there, staring down the barrel of an automatic weapon, her finger tenses around the trigger of her own gun, but the facts are against her. She’s outgunned.

There’s no going back now.

There’s no one to save her.

_This is it._

Gunshots pierce the air. Deafening explosions that seem to make reality itself quake.

Her finger pulls the trigger hard. At this point it’s probably useless— her one shot against a seemingly endless stream of bullets hurtling towards her— but she _has_ to try.

All she can do now is squeeze her eyes closed and pray that by some miracle she makes it through this. So, she does just that.

Only nothing happens.

Her ears ring painfully, her hearing near gone, but she can still just make out dull thumps of what must be bullets hitting something, and… _screams?_ Only she isn’t hurt… not that she can tell anyway.

Hesitantly, she cracks her eyes open.

The scene that lays before her is not one that she expected.

The gunfire has ceased now, but she can no longer see the gunman. Her view is blocked by… _red?_ For what feels like the longest moment, her brain struggles to comprehend the sight. Something big and red takes up almost the entirety of her vision and it… _moves._

It’s only when he starts to turn that she realises what has happened.

_Lucifer_.

He’s here… _somehow_ , and his wings are out— not the white, feathery ones, but the devilish, red ones— spread behind him. Only they look different than they had the last time she’d seen them. The thin membranes are torn, riddled by bullet holes that drip with crimson. One hangs down more limply than the other, like he’s struggling to keep it off the floor.

He _shielded_ her. _Again._

And he’s _hurt._

“Lucifer! _What were you thinking?!”_ Chloe snaps, unable to hear her own voice as she lunges for him, managing to catch him and slow his fall as he collapses in a pile on the dirty, warehouse floor.

It had all happened so fast. Adrenaline courses through her veins, her heart beats wildly in her chest and her ears still ring to a painful degree. His lips move and, if she strains, she can just hear the words that tumble from them.

“I was _thinking,”_ he snaps back through gritted teeth, hand holding his side, his fingers already slick with red, “I’d rather _I_ get shot than _you_ , Detective.”

A multitude of questions sit on the tip of her tongue. He’d been in the car, sulking over something she doesn’t even remember now, when she’d followed their suspect on foot into the shipyard. How had he found her? How had he even known that she was in trouble? Had he heard the commotion?

She takes a deep breath, desperately trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions that rages within her. She _needs_ to focus. Lucifer needs help. _Now_.

Looking over him, she makes a quick assessment of his wounds. The most concerning is the patch of red that swells on the right side of his shirt. His hand clutches at it in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood that oozes heavily from the wound.

Her hand instinctively goes to cover his, squeezing his fingers as she feels the wet, sticky heat coat her own.

She lifts her gaze to meet his eyes. His gaze is a little unfocused, but those dark depths still follow her, twinkling softly in the low light.

“Lucifer?”

A rough little grumble resounds in his throat in acknowledgment.

She worries her lip between her teeth for a moment, eyes flitting over the picture before her. He’s losing blood quickly. His wings are still spread on the floor behind him, clearly damaged, but she doesn’t really know what she’s looking at to be able to assess the extent of it.

A quick glance over her shoulder confirms to her that the suspect she’d been chasing is at least unconscious. He’s slumped down against the corrugated metal wall of a shipping container, clearly out for the count, but who knows how long that will last? Or even _how_ that had happened among everything else that had gone on.

It’s easy to forget how much Lucifer is capable of— how _powerful_ he is. Especially when he acts like a petulant child the majority of the time. She’s so very thankful for her guardian Devil though, no matter how much he may irritate her sometimes. She can’t even stomach the thought of where she would be if he hadn’t intervened when he did.

Or even where she would already be if he hadn’t put himself in harm’s way to protect her so many times before.

But they are— once again— in a sticky situation. He needs help, and she needs to make sure that all traces of anything devilish or divine are gone before any other human sees. The sound of gunfire was sure to have been overheard, and backup is probably on its way as they sit there.

“You need to put your wings away.”

He nods sluggishly before shuffling himself on the floor, attempting to shift his weight from on top of his wings. She tries her best to support him, her hand going to grip his arm as his features crease in pain at the tiniest of movements.

It’s slow, but he manages to sit up fairly straight, even if the action does seem to cause all the colour to drain from his face. Wrapping her arm around his lower back for support, she moves closer to him, until he’s mostly leaning up against her with his long legs splayed out on the floor in front of him.

His head lolls against her shoulder as he takes a pause. She can feel his ragged breaths, hot and wet, against her neck.

There's a long, tense moment where she waits for some sign that he's going to do as she asked. For a sign that he _can_ do as she'd asked, that he isn't already too far gone, because if he is... if he can't put his wings away, she doesn't know what she's going to do.

When he gives no indication that he’s going to move, she eventually decides to prompt him. He’s leaning heavily on her shoulder, almost panting now. “Lucifer?”

"Mh?" he grumbles, a barely formed, rough sound.

Turning slightly on the spot, but still making sure to support the weight he's put on her, she brings her hand up to his chin and lifts it so that his gaze once again meets hers. "Lucifer," she starts, her tone soft but firm, "I need you to try and put your wings away, okay?" She pauses a second, and then adds, "Can you do that?"

He blinks sluggishly back at her and she thinks he might not have heard her, that maybe it _is_ too late, but then he presses his lips together, a glint of recognition sparkling in his glazed over eyes, and nods. "'Kay," he manages to mumble, as he seemingly prepares himself for the task at hand, pulling himself almost straight, his shoulders stiffening slightly against her.

His face tenses, lines pulling at the corners of his eyes as he cringes at the movement. She wishes that she could help, not just sit idly by and watch whilst he suffers. But it'll be better after this, once the glaring proof of divinity (or at least proof that eternal damnation is a very real thing) on his back is hidden. She can get him somewhere safe, with someone who can help him, and leave him so that he can heal.

Because that's just it isn't it? She really isn't helping at all, merely harming him further by making him mortal. But she can't just leave him here with his wings out and hope that no one sees him, or worse, that he doesn't bleed to death before she can get far enough away....

_Focus_.

She needs to focus on getting his wings away and then, then she can figure out what's next.

He stills, save for his chest heaving as he takes one difficult, laboured breath after another. She focuses on his face, not looking at the red, leathery wings that she can hear rustling as they move behind them both. He looks... _pale_. Dark circles hanging under his eyes only accentuate the hollowed look that seems to have suddenly dawned his features.

"You can do this," she says, bringing her thumb to brush gently over his stubbled cheek, rasping in the silence of the warehouse around them.

He nods. It's a little movement, but it's filled with so much determination.

And then he shrugs.

At first his wings look as though they are going to fold in neatly on his back before disappearing, as she'd seen once before. But then it sounds like something _breaks_.

A horrible cracking sound fills the air around them, followed by a guttural scream that spills from his mouth in a fit of writhing agony.

But his movements do not cease. Despite the obvious pain they are causing, his wings still twitch, moving jerkily as he tries so very hard to conceal them.

The crunching sounds that come from them, mixed with his pain-induced screams cause the sickly feeling that's settled in her stomach to intensify. She grips his arm hard, her fingers digging into the material of his jacket, as he squeezes his eyes shut, seemingly trying to fight against the pain.

"Lucifer! Stop!" she cries out, panic set deep in her voice.

He doesn't stop. It actually seems like he increases his efforts as he strains causing the muscles in his neck to bulge and the veins to pop out slightly. His wings only barely move though, one seems okay, but the other struggles, the... _hinge_ (???) obviously not working as it should, causing it to flail uselessly instead of folding. Blood streams down it now, dripping to the dirty concrete floor in a waterfall of crimson.

"Lucifer! Please!" she tries again, desperate now. "You're hurting yourself!"

It's clear that whatever has happened to his wing has rendered it— at least temporarily— disabled.

Lucifer shakes his head, eyes still squeezed tightly shut, his mouth creased into a pained line. "No," he manages to grind out through gritted teeth, "I can do it."

She shakes his arm now, practically begging him to stop. "You can't! Lucifer your wing it's—"

"I can," he huffs again.

He looks far paler now than he had before, his movements lagging as all that remains of his energy drains from his injured body.

He needs to stop this _now_.

She takes one deep breath. One second to compose herself, to focus on what she needs to do. One second is all she can afford.

"Lucifer," she says as firmly as she can manage. Taking his cheek in her hand, she brushes her thumb over his stubble, squeezing ever so slightly to help get his attention. "Look at me. Please."

His eyes open hesitantly, face still creased in pain as his wing continues to spasm behind him. The ever-present sparkle that usually resides in those dark, soulful depths seems to have faded somewhat, which worries her even more.

"You need to stop," she tells him, trying to remain as calm as possible. His gaze seems to search hers for a moment, almost asking her the silent question that she knows is on his mind.

_How are we going to get out of this?_

She lets her fingers stray over his cheeks, stroking soothing patterns along his jawline, and then in answer to the unasked, says, "We'll find another way.” For a second, she lets those memories of all the tricky situations they’ve found themselves in over the years bubble to the forefront of her mind. To remind herself that this is just another one of them. That they _will_ get out of this, just as they have done so many times before. “We always do, right?"

He seems to deflate at that. Quite literally. His body sags against hers as all his movements finally halt. His head rests on her shoulder, his hair tickling the crook of her neck as his arms reach out for her, limply attempting to engulf her body.

"'Kay," a gruff, slurred little agreement comes, mumbled into her now blood-soaked shirt.

"Okay," she agrees, tangling her fingers in his dark hair as they sit there, finally finding some peace in each other's arms in what seems like a whirlwind of chaos around them. “Okay,” she repeats slowly, a barely audible reassurance to herself that they _will_ figure this out.

They sit there, in a jumbled mess on the cracked and dirty floor of the decrepit shipping warehouse for a few precious minutes. Her arms wrapping around his slumped, broken body as he breathes one laborious breath after another. She leans into him, her head resting against his, as if trying to shield his body with her own, just as he has done for her.

They do need to move, but after… _that—_ those harrowing screams that will no doubt haunt her dreams for many years to come— she figures that they could both use a moment to recover. Him especially.

“Still with me?” she asks in a hushed tone, knowing full well that he is, if only barely.

There’s a beat of silence where she raises her hand to rest it on the side of his head, her bloodied fingers sinking into his unruly mess of hair, and then, he nods. It’s a miniscule movement, but a confirmation, nonetheless.

Keeping one hand wrapped firmly around him, she pulls away slightly, managing to reach into her jacket pocket to retrieve her phone. Other than an unhappy little grumble, Lucifer doesn’t seem to show any interest in what she’s doing.

Clicking the button on her phone causes the screen to light up, illuminating the dark space around them. The light is harsh and unforgiving, stinging her eyes and making her squint against the sudden brightness. The time reads 16:56. Dan’s picking up Trixie, so that’s one less thing for her to worry about.

Awkwardly balancing the device on her pinkie, she enters her passcode with her thumb, leaving bloody smears across the screen. She quickly finds her contacts and scrolls down, searching for someone in particular. _Maze._ Surely the demon will be able to help.

Yes, she can come and get Lucifer and then everything will be alright.

Dialling Maze, she hits loudspeaker and waits. The ringing echoes eerily off the high, tin roof of the warehouse, only adding to the unsettled feeling that grows heavier and heavier within her at each passing ring.

_“Come on_ ,” she mutters to herself, her hand idly stroking through Lucifer’s hair as her eyes nervously scan her surroundings. The shadows cast over the floor from the sunlight that floods in through the open entryway grow longer with each minute that ticks by as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. Her view outside is obstructed by two stacked and rusting shipping containers, and that has her on edge.

Anyone could be out there, and she wouldn’t be able to see them coming.

The phone continues to ring, and each second seems longer and more agonising than the last until finally it stops.

_“This is Maze. Leave a message. Or don’t. I don’t care.”_

_Voicemail._

Of all the times not to pick up. Chloe silently curses as her plan disintegrates in a mere instant. Maze was her lifeline, and now… well she has one more idea, but it’s a hail Mary at best. The last resort.

“Lucifer,” she says, shaking his shoulder a little when he doesn’t respond. “Lucifer,” she hisses again, a little more desperately. _Please, please be awake._

A resigned little grumble erupts from him and his arms seem to tighten around her, pulling her closer to him. It’s almost like she’s trying to get him up out of bed in the morning, not trying to navigate them through a potentially dangerous situation. “What?” he groans, followed by a very sleepy sounding, “Jus’ five more minutes….”

Maybe he does think they’re in bed after all. “Lucifer,” she says again, more firmly this time. “I need your phone.”

She waits a second and, when he doesn’t offer a response, decides to dive into his jacket pocket herself. It’ll be quicker this way.

“Hey,” he murmurs, squirming weakly as her hand delves under his jacket and finds its way into his pocket. “What are you d….” He trails off, pulling away to frown at her.

She answers his half-question bluntly. “I’m calling Amenadiel,” 

“’S no good,” Lucifer mumbles, slumping back down onto her shoulder as she takes his phone from him anyway.

She knows his password. He’s never changed it, not since he first got his phone. _“Carnal with a capital C”,_ she recalls somehow, even after all this time. But she pauses before entering it. “What do you mean?” And when he, once again, offers no answer, she prods him in the arm, maybe a little too sharply. “Lucifer!” she prompts. “What do you mean ‘it’s no good’?”

He shuffles a little, seeming like he’s trying to get comfortable. An impossible task when you’re sat on a cold, concrete floor with multiple gunshot wounds, surely. “Linda’s out of state,” he slurs, snuggling back into her neck, “visi’ing family with Charlie, ‘n ‘menadiel’s away.” And then he falls quiet, looking quite content as his eyes drift shut once more.

_“Away_?” she parrots blankly, trying to figure out what that means, if he’s not with Linda.

In response, Lucifer just weakly points towards the sky. Amenadiel is in heaven— for what reason, she doesn’t know— and Lucifer doesn’t seem like he’s about to tell her. All she knows is that it means he’s unreachable.

“Are you being _serious?”_ she snaps, a somewhat harsh tone to take, but it’s mostly as a result of their quickly dwindling options, coupled with her growing anxiety.

It’s then when he puts the most amount of effort in. He pulls himself straight once more, looks down at the bloody mess that is his side, and then back up to stare at her, a pointed, albeit unfocused stare. “Do I look like I’m having a laugh?” he deadpans, his pale face the picture of dead seriousness.

She worries her lip between her teeth. “Is there anyone else that could help?” she asks him, another desperate last-ditch attempt. A futile attempt at that, because— as far as she’s aware— not _that_ many people know who Lucifer really is. Her and Linda seem to be the only humans privy to that information, and it’s not like they got there easily. It had taken years for them to have learned the truth, and even then, it had been by accident.

So, despite the way Lucifer goes around, shouting to the world that he is _the_ Devil, she doubts any other person has gained his trust enough to fully understand the truth. Unless… _Eve_ , she knows! Maybe—

She’s about to get her hopes up when she remembers, no one has heard from Eve in… what has it been since she left? A year? More? She can’t even recall anymore.

_So that’s another plan gone._

She could let herself panic at the situation that seems to grow evermore dire with each moment that they remain here, open and exposed to anyone who may happen to wander by. But no, she’s not going to do that. She’s Chloe _freaking_ Decker and she’s going to get them out of this, whatever it takes.

“Lucifer,” – she prods him in the arm again when she notices his eyes are closed, even though he’s sat up— “hey, you awake?”

Another pained little grumble comes, followed by, “ _Barely,”_ in a completely resigned tone. As if being awake is merely an inconvenience to him at this point.

“Good. We need to get out of here and get you somewhere safe.” She quickly scans over his injuries; he’s lost a fair amount of blood, but he’s still coherent, so that’s a good sign. “Do you think you can stand if I help you?”

It’ll probably be a struggle, what with him being almost a foot taller than her and the fact that he has at least twelve foot of wings that can’t support their own weight on his back. And even if he can’t stand, they can’t just sit here all night, waiting to be found. What is she going to do? _Drag him_ to the car? Does she really have any other choice?

Thankfully, his response gives her some hope. “’Think so.” Hesitantly, he lifts his hand from where it rests on his abdomen, cringing a little as he tries to get a good look at the wound in his side. It still gushes a river of deep crimson, making his shirt completely sodden. “’S not that bad,” he slurs, placing his hand back over it and looking at her with a hopeful little glint in his eyes.

She can only hum nervously in response, because it actually _does_ look bad. Not as bad as that time he’d been shot almost point blank in the stomach at Lux, but still, it’s bleeding _a lot_. He’s going to pass out sooner or later, and she would much prefer to get him somewhere that she can patch him up _before_ that happens.

“Wha’ ‘bout ‘im?” he mumbles, blinking sluggishly, his gaze seemingly focused not on her but on some undefined point behind her.

It takes her a minute of staring at him blankly before her brain finally registers his meaning. She follows what she had thought was his blank, semi-conscious gaze to find that he was looking at something.

_The suspect they’d been chasing._

He’s still unconscious on the floor. Somehow, she’d almost forgotten he was there.

Another hiccup in this… _plan_ of theirs. If you can really call it that.

As if this needs to be any more complicated than it already is.

She can’t let him go. He’s their prime suspect in the homicide they are investigating, and he was going to _kill her._ If that doesn’t scream “guilty” she doesn’t know what does.

But she can’t have someone come get him, and she certainly doesn’t have time to drag him to her car as well.

“ _Right.”_ She chews on her lip as she carefully untangles herself from Lucifer’s weak grasp, making sure that he’s able to stay upright on his own. “I’ve got an idea.”

Slowly rising from her spot on the floor, she cringes a little as the muscles in her legs protest the sudden burst of movement. She unhooks her cuffs from where they hang on her belt, and cautiously makes her way over to their sleeping suspect. He looks like he’s still out cold, but it’s best to be careful anyway. They really don’t need any more problems today.

Holding her cuffs in one hand, her other goes to cover her weapon, just in case. She stands over him for a second. There’s a small smear of blood on his forehead and his dark brown hair looks a little slick with it. A matching sized stain splatters the metal container wall above his slumped body. It looks like he was pushed into the wall and hit his head. Can Lucifer do that with his wings from a distance? She hasn’t seen him use his wings for anything besides… besides that night on the balcony when he’d left her. That’s not something she wants to think about now. Not that it matters anyway. He’s back.

It’d be stupid to still feel hurt over something that doesn’t even matter anymore, wouldn’t it? Even if they still haven’t exactly talked about him leaving and what they said to each other that night. He hadn’t even told her _how_ he was able to leave Hell unattended, simply telling her that he’d ‘dealt with the situation’ and that she didn’t have to know the details. Why? What is he trying to protect her from this time?

Shaking that line of thought before it turns dark, she stands over their suspect for a second, watching as his chest slowly rises and falls. The weapon he’d used to try and kill her has been pushed off to the side, well out of his reach. Just to be sure, she nudges him in the ribs with her foot, maybe a little bit harder than is strictly necessary, but this scumbag was about to _kill her,_ so she figures he deserves it.

When she’s sure he’s out for good, she scans her immediate surroundings, looking for something to cuff him to. A pipe would be preferable, but the best she’s able to do is a grate in the floor about a meter from where she’s standing.

It takes a fair amount of effort, as the guy is a bit bigger than she is. Her chest is heaving by the time she’s done, but she manages to cuff him to the drain. It’s fairly sturdy, despite the rather dilapidated condition of the warehouse around them, which is good.

He isn’t going _anywhere_.

Well, at least until she gets somewhere safe and calls in an anonymous tip that he’s here. They won’t be able to charge him with her or Lucifer’s attempted murder, but he’s definitely going away for the double homicide they were investigating, plus a number of other charges, including possession of an illegal firearm.

That’ll have to do.

It’s not the best, but she doesn’t exactly have a vast array of options to choose from.

She doesn’t have time to question her decision right now anyway. They need to get out of here. She needs to get _Lucifer_ out of here, get him somewhere safe and get him patched up.

He’s still sitting in the same place that she left him, his hand holding his side, and his wings still spread behind him. His dark eyes glisten in the quickly coming dusk, tracing her movements as she makes her way back to him. Waiting for her to help him.

He _trusts_ her to help him.

Trusts her when she’s the reason he’s hurt in the first place. Her heart squeezes painfully at that thought as she adds this to the ever-growing list of things he’s done to protect her. Every time he’s been shot or stabbed in the name of her safety.

Every time he’s gotten hurt because he cares about her more than he cares about himself.

All because she makes him _vulnerable._

No matter what he says, she can never not feel guilty about that.

“Hey,” she greets him again softly, crouching down on one knee before him, feeling the chill from the concrete seep in through her jeans. Gently tracing her fingers over his cheek, she asks, “How are you doing?”

He shifts the hand that rests on his wound a little, testing the area with his long fingers, and cringes a bit, before smiling at her weakly. “Been better,” he says with a little huff, that she suspects is supposed to be a laugh. “’M cold…” he adds after a beat, with a hint of defeat in his tone that makes her heart ache.

“I know,” she replies, leaning into him, her fingers straying along his neck and tangling themselves in the short hairs at his nape. “It’ll be better soon,” she tells him as she presses her lips to his forehead, a tender little touch to tell him that it’s going to be okay.

That she _cares_ about him as much as he cares about her.

She doesn’t linger long, but when she pulls away, he has that same look of awe shining in his eyes as the first time she’d kissed him. That wonder-filled little way that he looks at her with his lips slightly parted, like she’s given him so much more than just a kiss.

Like she’s given him something that he never believed he could have.

For what seems like far longer than a moment, they just stare at each other, losing themselves in each other’s eyes.

“Okay,” she says, finally breaking the moment, “you think you can make it to the car?”

His brow furrows as he slowly turns to look at his outstretched wings before shooting her a quizzical look. “I very much doubt I’ll fit in your car, ‘tective,” he says slowly, the muscles in his jaw tensing like he’s trying to stop his teeth from chattering.

She chews the inside of her cheek, her eyes going wide as she realises this ravine-sized flaw in her otherwise impenetrable plan. _Think Decker_. There has to be another way. “What _if_ ,” she starts, the seed of an idea sprouting in her brain, “you get in the back, I can fold the seats down and—”

“’M not bloody getting into your _boot_ ,” he scoffs weakly at the idea.

_“Technically_ ,” she drawls, cringing because it kind of is like stuffing him in the trunk of her car, “it’s _not_ the trunk.”

He shoots her a stare so icy that he doesn’t even need to say anything, and she still knows exactly what his answer is. _No bloody way._

“Lucifer, look,”— she takes his hand in her own and squeezes it slightly, imploring him to listen to her— “we don’t exactly have many options here.” When he doesn’t reply, she adds, “It’s either this or we _walk_ back to Lux.” That’s definitely _not_ an option, even if he were physically capable. Exposing hundreds of people to Lucifer’s… _devilishness_ could be catastrophic. She’s seen what that does to people and it is _not_ pretty.

He still looks somewhat annoyed by the whole situation but finally, after a long moment of contemplation, he replies, “ _Fine,”_ sounding just about done with everything.

It will still be a squeeze, but the wing that he can still bend can fold over him and the other can lay mostly flat. He’ll probably complain the entire time, but he’s Lucifer. She’s used to constant complaints by now.

“Alright,” she says, trying her best to give him a comforting smile, knowing that this is going to be difficult. That it’s going to _hurt._ But they don’t have a choice. He will have to push through, and she will do the best she can to help him. “Are you ready?”

The car isn’t _too_ far. Well, at least not to any able-bodied person. She’d parked in the shipyard parking lot, which looked to have been more or less abandoned, aside from a truck that didn’t seem to be in any kind of working order. They’d gotten a tip that the suspect they’d been trying to track down was going to be at the docks waiting for some kind of meeting. So, she’d hopped out of the car and worked her way through the winding alleys between all the shipping warehouses until she’d spotted him. It’d become strikingly obvious that he was guilty when she approached him, and he did what all guilty people feel the need to do.

_Run._

Thankfully, the chase didn’t go on for too long. He tried to lose her by slipping inside a warehouse door that had been left slightly ajar. She followed him in, and he had nowhere to go. That’s when he pulled his weapon. He’d attacked, just as cornered animals always do. And that’s how they’d ended up here, Lucifer bloody and beaten, whilst she tries her best to handle the situation and avoid anyone being exposed to his wings, or anything worse….

Lucifer presses his lips into a tense line and nods, planting one hand flat on the concrete to gain some leverage.

“Okay.” She gives his shoulder one last little squeeze before taking a hold of his wrist and slipping under his arm. Getting off the ground— as first steps always seem to be— will likely prove to be the most difficult part of their task. _Staying up_ shouldn’t be too hard with her help, and the wall for him to lean on, when they get there. 

He takes a moment, seemingly to compose himself, and then, planting his feet flat on the ground, he pushes himself up. His arm tenses around her shoulders, his hand gripping the fabric of her dirty, blood stained shirt hard as she tries her best to take his weight. Behind them, she can hear his wings flailing again, almost flapping as if he’s trying to use them to push himself up. His chest heaves as he takes one laborious breath after another, making him hiss as the air pushes past his tightly clenched jaws.

A strained grunt squeezes out of his gritted teeth as his legs gain their ground beneath him, and he is finally upright. Sweat beads on her forehead at the effort, his weight still pressing down on her uncomfortably, but they are up.

She’s about to cheer about it, when she notices Lucifer blink, long and slow, his eyes remaining hooded and his face almost deathly pale. His free arm hangs limply at his side, not even bothering to try and stop the flow of blood from his wound anymore.

_He’s going to pass out,_ she realises.

“ _Hey!”_ she cries, desperate as his eyes close and, for a long moment, don’t open again. “Lucifer!”

His eyes seem to focus on her for a split second before visibly glazing over, his eyelids drooping and the brief steadiness that they’d had disappearing in an instant. Acting as quickly as she can, she grabs him under his other arm, trying to take even more of his weight from him as he wobbles precariously on the spot.

“Stay with me!” she implores him, not able to even conceive what she would do if he collapsed on her. What _could_ she do?

Her knees buckle beneath her as his body becomes increasingly limp and he remains unresponsive to her pleas. She grabs her own hand behind his back, desperately trying to hold on to him as the full force of his weight begins to bare down on her, pushing them both backwards.

“ _Lucifer!”_ she tries again, voice straining as she struggles to keep them both vertical, feeling herself just about to go.

And it’s then, just when gravity is about to claim them, that his eyes flutter open and his body gains the stability that they need.

“Hm?” he grumbles, blinking sluggishly as he regains awareness of his surroundings, and, when he looks down, his brow furrows a little as he sees her hugging herself against him still. His lips part slightly as his expression morphs into one of confusion. “What ‘re you doin’ t’ me?” he slurs, his mouth remaining slightly agape as he wheezes shallow breaths. “What happened?”

A smile tugs at her lips, half because he’s so adorable when he’s confused, and half to try and cover the tears that spring to her eyes at the thought of losing him again. It’d been so hard the first time. She just doesn’t know if she can do that again. “I thought I’d lost you there for a second,” she says, a slight wobble to her voice that she just can’t help. “But you’re okay.”

She pulls her fingers through his now slightly damp with sweat hair, before straying downwards to gently brush his cheek. He’s going to be okay. They _are_ going to get through this.

Failure is not an option.

He blinks a couple more times, seemingly more aware of himself now, though his pallor is still worrisome. “Feel sick,” he grumbles.

She cringes at that. Unfortunately, there’s nothing she can do right now to help remedy his nausea. “Are you okay to try and walk?” She feels awful about putting him through all this. About forcing him to walk when he’s in no state to. But they don’t have a choice. “You’ll feel better once you can lie down.” The words spill from her lips almost automatically, a small reassurance that she’s not sure either of them believes.

“’Kay,” he mumbles, nodding for them to continue.

And so, they start moving.

Every step is agonising.

Their progress is painstakingly slow as they take one shuffled step after another, him leaning on her more heavily with each. His wings drag behind him, scraping on the floor as if he no longer cares to bother about trying to pick them up.

Or maybe he can’t. Maybe he’s just that far gone, managing to carry on only because she’s there to pull him along. He certainly isn’t as perky as he had been before. In fact, he doesn’t utter a single word as they trudge along. But he still moves, determined as ever, puffing shallow breaths that become increasingly ragged.

It’s better when they reach the door to the outside. The sun has almost set, casting the narrow alleys between the warehouses into near darkness. A cool evening breeze blows carrying the scent of salt and prickling her exposed skin. She worries about Lucifer. He’d said he was cold, probably from the blood loss. If he is, he doesn’t say anything though, remaining deathly silent.

He brings his hand up from his wound and slaps it against the corrugated metal of the warehouse wall with a wet thud. A little relieved sigh escapes him as he leans there for a moment, attempting to catch his breath before they move again.

She allows him a little bit of time before ushering him onwards again. There’s no one around, but they can’t afford to dawdle regardless. When they continue, he leans heavily on the wall, his hand leaving a bloody smear along the metal behind them.

It seems to take forever to get back. At one point she thinks she might have made a wrong turn, but she can’t be sure. The warehouses all look the same, and she hadn’t been paying any particular attention to where she was going when she was chasing the suspect. The sun has long set and she’s starting to worry.

Lucifer jars to a halt, panting as he leans heavily against a wall. She’s sure he’d collapse to the floor if she let go of him. She chews her lip nervously as she gives him another minute’s rest, before tugging on his arm to push him onward once again. Only this time he doesn’t move. She may as well be trying to move a boulder twice her size, because he doesn’t budge. Not one inch.

He just remains planted to his spot, half slumped against the metal.

She tries again, ushering him forward, but he only grunts in response. “Lucifer, come on, just a little bit further.” _At least she thinks it is._ “We’re almost there.”

“I can’t,” he groans. And then he looks up to her, his dark eyes shining, his mouth downturned, pressed into a distressed line. “’M too tired.” The words tumble from his lips and oh, it makes her want to hug him and never let go. It makes her want to be able to do something for him, something more than _hurt_ him.

But it can’t be much further now, and he is _strong_. The strongest person she’s ever known. He’s been through so much. Literal _Hell_ for a start. He can do it; she _knows_ he can. He just needs to know that she believes in him.

“Lucifer,” she starts, taking his face in her hand, feeling his stubble prickle the soft skin of her palm and leaving little red smudges where her fingers rub reassuring circles, “you can do this. I _know_ you can.” She squeezes his cheek a little as his dark eyes bore into her. “You are so strong, and I know this is hard, but it’s just a little bit further.”

They stare at each other for what seems like forever, one moment stretched out between them like eternity, filled only by his uneven, ragged breaths.

And then, breaking the almost silence, she says, “ _Please_ , I _need_ you.” She needs him to keep going, yes, but more importantly, she just needs him. If he gives up now, he’s giving up entirely— he’s leaving her all over again and she can’t… she can’t let that happen. A stray tear trickles, unbidden down her cheek. “I love you,” she tells him, with just as much sorrow in her voice as the first time she’d said it. “Please.”

Leaning up to him on her tiptoes, she presses her lips to his. They are unsettlingly cold but still as silky soft as she remembers them. Despite his state, she can still feel his shock, the way he tenses up before almost melting into it, as much as he is capable. It doesn’t last long, more desperate than anything, her trying to show him that she loves him, and she misses him even though he’s right here, beside her.

That she’s wanted more between them, and that she regrets not acting on it sooner. When he’d come back from Hell, there’d been this distance between them. This coldness that exuded from him that she didn’t dare break. And then they’d just fallen back into old habits, him clearly being eaten away at by whatever had happened to him in Hell, and her not asking too many questions, for fear of pushing him away.

Now though, she knows he isn’t going to leave her again, not by choice. Not if she can help it. 

He stares back at her, his lips slightly parted, that same look of disbelief on his face as there had been the first time he’d heard those words from her lips. “Okay,” he utters, a gruff little word on his lips, eyes still fixed on her as though he can’t believe that this is real. That maybe he’s fallen asleep and this is just some feverish dream. “I can do it,” he says, seemingly with renewed vigour as he pulls himself up against the wall and his eyes lock on to their task with determination swirling deep within them.

They walk for maybe five more minutes down a stretch of tarmac with imposing metal walls looming over them, and every second of it she hopes, prays, begs, _pleads_ with _whomever_ might be listening (though Lucifer has assured her many times that no one is) that the next corner is their last.

And then they reach the corner, pausing for a moment as she closes her eyes and hopes with everything that she has that this is it, that they will turn the corner and see the light at the end of the tunnel. He can’t take much more of this, and it is killing her to force him onwards. They just need this break.

Shuffling slowly, they round the building, and her eyes meet their salvation. She releases a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding when the parking lot comes into view in front of her, her car still sitting exactly where she’d left it. One old and flickering streetlamp casts a dim, yellow light over the area, illuminating their salvation.

Lucifer lifts his gaze from the floor to see why she’s stopped. “Finally,” he grumbles as a relieved little sigh slips from his lips, and his body sags against hers.

“Hey,” she says, nudging him a little, “still got a little bit to go, don’t you be collapsing on me just yet. I really don’t think I can drag you,” she adds, jokingly.

He huffs a weary sounding scoff at that. “Really, ‘tective, d’you really think so little of me that I’d allow you to drag me?”

From what she can tell, the slurred question is an attempt at humour, though his joke falls a little flat given that he looks as though he may _actually_ collapse at any second.

She hums, feigning scepticism. “Maybe that’d be more convincing if you didn’t sound like you were about to pass out,” she says, the playfulness to her tone covering a very real worry that simmers within her. “Come on.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe and Lucifer struggle onwards in their journey to safety.

The last stretch of their journey doesn’t seem so bad. The crumbling asphalt crunches under their feet as they make their way across the parking lot, towards her car and their escape. Thankfully, the area is still empty. The only other vehicle is a busted-up truck with a missing wheel. It looks like it probably hasn’t moved in a few months, judging by the dirt that has accumulated on the windshield.

And finally, they are there, standing at the side of her car. She feels some relief as the worry of him passing out on her lifts. Of course, it’s still not going to be great if he _does_ pass out now, but at least he’s in a more manageable place.

She extricates herself from under his arm as he leans heavily against the passenger side door, one bloodied hand pressing against the window for support, as she rummages in her pockets for her keys.

“’S unlocked,” he croaks, sounding more than a little flaky.

Her movements cease. Of course, she’d left Lucifer in the car, and she’s long past the habit of locking him inside thanks to his many protests over the years. “Right,” she replies, nodding.

Surely enough, when she tries the handle to the back door, it opens with a click. She moves as quickly as she finds herself able to, fumbling with shaking, bloody fingers to locate the levers that fold the seats down. Smears of red soak into the upholstery wherever she touches, leaving stains that she knows will be hell to deal with, but she can hardly bring herself to care in the moment. All that matters now is getting out of here.

After what feels like far too long, her fingers finally latch on to the little plastic lever at the side of the chair, and she pulls it. The chairs fold down fairly easily after that, lying flat to form an area that’s at least big enough for a person to lie down in… a person _without_ wings.

Throwing a sideways glance at Lucifer, she starts to doubt her plan. His wings are massive. Without him being able to fold them away, she’s not sure how she’s possibly going to get him inside.

“Lucifer,” she says quietly as she pulls herself from the car to look at him, standing there with his eyes closed. One hand clutches his side, while the other he uses to support himself against the window.

He grumbles a response, but his eyes remain closed.

No matter whether she thinks it’s possible or not, she has to try. He needs to get somewhere safe and there just isn’t any other option right now. “Come on, you have to get in.”

“Don’t think ‘ll fit,” he replies wearily, his eyes opening a fraction, just enough that she can see them glistening in the light.

She bites the inside of her cheek, trying desperately not to lose all hope. They can’t give up now. They’ve already come too far. “You have to try, Lucifer.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she shuffles slightly on the spot. “Can you fold that wing in?” she asks, pointing to the wing that seems to be in pretty good shape, sans the bullet holes that mar the thin, red membranes. As far as she can see though, the functional parts— the bones— all seem to be intact, she’s just not exactly sure how much control he has over them separately.

Without a word, he does as she’s asked of him, first moving his wing slowly, hesitantly testing the range of movement that he has. After a moment, he looks back to her, giving her a little nod.

Okay. That’s good. Maybe they can make this work after all.

She glances back to the now flat interior in the back of the car. The entrance might be a bit of a squeeze given the height of his wings, but once he’s in she’s sure there will be enough room for him to spread out a bit.

It’s just getting him in that seems to be a problem.

“Can you come sit here?” She points to the edge of the flattened seat. Hopefully he can sit down, fold his wings in a bit and shuffle himself in backwards. _Hopefully._

Slowly, he pulls himself away from the side of the car, leaving a great big bloody handprint smeared on her window. She’ll have to remember to wipe that off before they get moving. It’ll surely attract unwanted attention if anyone were to see it, and they really don’t have time for any more hiccups.

He’s a little hunched over, clutching his side as he shuffles himself around the open door, giving it a wide berth so as to not catch his good wing on it. The other wing, the one that he can’t fold, drags along the floor behind him, scraping the tarmac, kicking up dust and loose gravel as he goes. The angle that it’s twisted at is… pretty sickening when she thinks about it. It’s bent backwards, the darker red bone along the top of his wing clearly completely snapped and sticking up at a jagged angle that makes her stomach turn.

It’s almost the equivalent of a broken arm being bent the wrong way….

The more she thinks about it, the more nauseous it makes her feel. He must be in so much pain….

“Here?” he asks gruffly, shaking her from her thoughts as he stops beside her, looking at the small entrance with about as much confusion in his features as he seems to be able to manage. It’s not much though— he mostly looks exhausted— but she can hardly blame him for that.

“Mhm, yeah,” she responds, quickly taking a step backwards as he turns, very almost swiping her with his good wing.

He stops for a second, blinking slowly and frowning as he glances over his shoulder, obviously seeing her jerk away from him. Confusion saturates his features as he tries to figure out what he’s done, but then his wing spasms, almost hitting her once more, causing her to have to sidestep it. “Oh,” he mumbles, “sorry.”

“That’s okay,” she replies. He’s clearly tired and struggling to stay awake, so she can’t blame him for losing a little control over his wings, but the prospect of getting body slammed by one of them isn’t exactly appealing.

She’s not _scared_ of them, exactly, but they are a little bit… _intimidating_. Those sharp claws and pointed ends, the rough red landscapes of membrane between the bones. She just hasn’t really gotten used to the sight of them quite yet, especially because she didn’t think she’d ever see them again, not after they went away that night.

When he _forgave_ himself.

She can’t help but wonder why they are back. It’s something she wants to ask him, something they should probably talk about, because if they are back, does that mean his other… _problem_ — him not being able to control his _devilishness_ — could come back too? If that’s true, she needs to know. Not just because it’ll impede their ability to work together, but because she saw what it did to him the first time, how terrified he was of losing himself, and she doesn’t want him to have to go through that again. Not if she can help stop it.

Now isn’t the time for questions though. She’ll just have to ask him once _this_ is all over and done with. Once he’s safe and healed.

“Yeah, just sit on the edge there if you can,” she tells him, “and try not to hit me with your wings please,” she adds. You know, just in case.

A grimace crosses his face as he bends, perching on the side of the seat, his legs planted firmly on the asphalt in front of him and his wings pushed awkwardly against the sides of the car. “What now?” he asks, squinting a little, before seemingly coming to some sort of realisation. “Thought you were going t’ stuff me in t’ boot….”

“That was just a joke.” _Kind of._ She had seriously considered it for a moment there.

He huffs, a gruff sounding, resigned little noise. “Wasn’t funny,” he groans, not dissimilar to how a petulant child might complain.

She can’t help but roll her eyes at him. Even in this condition, they still manage to banter. “Alright, now if you can fold your good wing in, however is comfortable for you, and then just… kinda slide in backwards.”

He looks sceptical, but still folds his one good wing in anyway, hugging it as close to his body as he can.

“Oh and, you might need to duck down a bit if you can.” She pauses a second, eyes fixed on the hook-like claw that protrudes from the top of his wing, sticking up above his head. “Otherwise you’ll catch your… um… _claw_ _thing.”_

“’S actually… more like… a thumb,” he replies slowly, sounding more than a little out of breath as he pauses for air between words.

 _Oh._ _A thumb? Wings have thumbs?_

Clearly, she doesn’t know anything about _wing anatomy_. That could prove to be a problem later on, if indeed she can’t get a hold of anyone else to patch him up. How exactly is she supposed to be able to help him if she has absolutely no idea what she’s even looking at?

That’s a problem for future Chloe though. She just needs to stay focused on the here and now and get him somewhere safe, then she can figure out all the rest.

For now, she just watches as he pulls himself into the car, inch by inch, flinching at each jerky movement. When it comes time for him to duck down so his wings can clear the door frame without catching, he does, but ends up hissing as he bends his middle a little more than he probably should. A sound, something akin to a whine seems to form in his throat before quickly dying out. She gets the feeling that he’s trying to stop himself. Trying not to let on how much pain he’s actually in, but she’s not stupid.

It’s obvious he’s in a bad way, even just from the gunshot wound to his side, never mind his wings or all the other little injuries he’s sustained.

Thankfully, he does manage to get inside, pulling himself and his folded wing in before his legs join him. The only thing that’s left is his broken wing that hangs limply half in and half out of the door. She’s not sure if he can move it; aside from it twitching as he’d tried to put it away, she hasn’t seen him actually moving it at all. He’d practically dragged it here all the way from the warehouse, leaving it with many smaller tears in the membranes.

His gaze falls to his ruined wing and the look she sees brewing in those dark eyes of his is something she’s not sure she’s ever seen in him before.

He looks _helpless_.

It breaks her heart.

Stepping forward, she crouches down a little and, ever so gently, picks his wing up from the floor. The texture beneath her fingertips is strange, and not like anything she’d expected. Somehow, she’d expected it to be _rougher_. To be coarse like sandpaper and solid like stone. But it isn’t.

It’s surprisingly soft against her skin, silky almost. There are parts where the skin is a little uneven, and creased, but for the most part it’s smooth. And the big bone feels much more _fragile_ in her grip than she thought it would. It feels like if she squeezes too hard it might just… break.

He winces as she tries to manoeuvre it into the car as carefully as possible. It takes longer than she thought it would, but she really can’t deal with hurting him anymore than she already has done. He just sits there, the entire time, staring at her with wide eyes, looking more alert than he had done before. When she meets his eyes, she catches a glimpse of something there that she can’t understand. He looks… _scared?_ Vulnerable? Defenceless?

A mixture of all the things the Devil has always claimed not to be.

She can’t help but think how young he looks. Like a frightened little boy.

If she thought she could climb in next to him and hug him without hurting him too much, she would. But even if she could, there’s no time for that now.

_Later Decker. There will be time later._

“Hey,” she says softly, after setting his wing down safely inside the car, “how are you doing?” At the moment, it’s the most she can do to comfort him. To let him know she’s _there_ for him.

He shuffles himself until his head bumps the back window and then his whole body just seems to _sag_ , like he doesn’t really care whether he’s comfortable or not. He’s lying down and that’s all that matters to him. “Yeah…” he answers drowsily, “’M not dead yet, ‘m I?” He tries to smile, but only manages a weak grimace.

It’s supposed to be a joke, but she’s certainly not laughing. If anything, it makes her worry all the more. The image of him _bleeding out_ in the back of her car floats to the forefront of her mind, making her feel like she might throw up. She even tastes bile on her tongue, but forces herself to shove the feeling down as quickly as possible.

_You can’t think like that. It’s not going to happen. Don’t think about it._

Instead she needs to focus on what she can do, which is make sure he’s okay, and get the hell out of here.

She just wishes she could do something to make it more comfortable for him. As it is, he’s squished into the small space, his legs bent, and his head awkwardly leaning against the window in a way that she’s sure will give him neck ache. His wings fit, but they don’t have a whole lot of room to spread out. The okay-ish one is folded into his back, hugging pretty close to his body, and the other one still lies, sprawled out, pretty much where she’d left it. The… _thumb_ part of his good wing is pressed up against the window though. Hopefully no one pays too much attention to that.

There isn’t much she can do for him other than to just drive to where they need to go as quickly (and safely) as possible, but at this time on a Friday evening, traffic is still going to be pretty bad. It’ll take them at least an hour to get to Lux and the journey isn’t going to be a relaxing one. There’s not much she has to give him to make it any better either.

The only thing she really has is her jacket, which she’d left on the front seat. That can serve as a makeshift pillow in a pinch. That’s _something,_ at least.

Reaching inside the car, she snatches up her jacket. The velvety camel-coloured material isn’t exactly ideal for a pillow, but it sure as hell isn’t big enough to use as a blanket, _especially_ for Lucifer.

She folds it up the best she can, tucking the arms in and making sure the zipper faces inwards. It’s not great, but it’s all she can offer him right now.

“Here,” she says softly, holding out the folded jacket to him, “you can use this as a pillow.” He blinks sluggishly at her offering as she worries her lip between her teeth. “Sorry I don’t have anything better,” she adds a little sheepishly.

“Thank you,” he replies quietly, as he takes it from her, careful not to unfold it as he works it into position behind his head. Even in such a state she can hear the gratitude in his voice. The shock of realising that she actually _cares_ about him. “’S perfect,” he adds as he settles back down, his head now cushioned by the jacket, not the window.

Maybe she could find it in herself to smile at his reaction to the miniscule gesture if only their situation were not so dire. She stands there for a moment, watching as his eyelids droop before opening again and blinking several times. He’s fighting the exhaustion, struggling in the icy grip of unconsciousness as it tries to claim him. She’s honestly not sure whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing. It’s obvious he needs to rest, but after all the blood he’s lost it would be so easy for him to just… _slip away._

_That’s not going to happen._

She keeps repeating the mantra to herself over and over, staving off the worst-case-scenario thoughts that persistently bubble up. Panicking isn’t useful. It’s dangerous.

_Get in the car, drive to Lux, take it from there._

One step at a time is the only way she can keep herself moving forward.

There’s nothing more she can do for him here. They need to get moving. She slips into the driver’s seat as quickly and calmly as possible; the worst thing she could do right now is give Lucifer any more reason to worry.

The engine roars to life, the rumble echoing in the derelict parking lot as she turns the key in the ignition. The overhead light turns on automatically, casting a weak glow over her. Her hands are a mess, her nails encrusted with dried blood and her palms still sticky with it. Her once white blouse is now splattered and smeared with crimson.

Reaching over to the passenger side, she opens the glove compartment, searching for any small thing that she can offer him to help ease his suffering. There’s nothing really in there, besides some paperwork and the packet of slightly old and probably a dried up wet wipes that live within. She keeps them there mainly out of habit now, from when Trixie was younger. The mess she could make with a single ice-cream cone… but now that she’s older, it’s mostly unnecessary. Still, it’s always good to be prepared.

She pulls back the plastic seal of the packet and takes out a couple of wipes before tossing it onto the passenger seat. The thought of offering them to Lucifer crosses her mind, but she dismisses it. She doubts that he’s really going to care, or that it would even make that much of a difference. Absently wiping her hands, she looks around the car.

There’s a half empty bottle of water sitting in her cup holder. Condensation has collected on the inside of the plastic as a result of sitting in the heat of the car for who even knows how long. She certainly doesn’t remember where it came from.

“Hey,” she says as she continues to wipe her hands, ridding herself of the majority of the blood from her palms and fingers. Unfortunately, there’s little to be done about her nails or her blouse, but it’s not important now anyway. Tossing the dirty wipe into the second empty cup holder, she picks up the water bottle and glances over her shoulder to Lucifer. “There’s some water, if you want it.”

She twists in her seat and leans over, holding out the bottle to him as best she can.

His eyes open just a crack as he looks back at her blankly. “Thanks,” he grumbles with lacklustre, one hand coming up to retrieve the bottle from her before dropping it beside him. “Anythin’… stron… ger?” he manages, breathlessly.

Of course he would ask that.

“Afraid not,” she answers, feeling a bit remorseful.

Alcohol doesn’t really seem like a good idea anyway, though she’s sure that to Lucifer, it’s always time for a drink. He had told her that he can’t actually get drunk because of his “celestial metabolism”, but she’s not entirely sure how true that is. She’s sure that he’s been a little bit tipsy at least once before that she’s seen; that time at the zombie wedding crime scene.

 _God_ that seems like a lifetime ago.

As she buckles her seatbelt and puts the car into drive, she finds herself wondering, just how much does she affect him, and _why?_ He told her that she makes him vulnerable. She’s seen it for herself, how he’s able to get hurt in her presence, and how he heals significantly faster when she’s not around.

Is there something more to it than that though? Does she affect his metabolism too? And how does it even work? Is there a specific distance that his… _field_ of vulnerability reaches, or does it depend on him too? Is there a specific number that could mean the difference between life or death for him?

Whatever it is, she knows that she doesn’t have to be _that_ far away in order for him to regain his immortality. When he’d been shot at Lux, she distinctly remembers how he’d started to feel better even just by being out on the street, maybe ten meters away. And then there was the time when there had been the explosion at that cabin on the set of that survival reality show. It seemed to take her mere seconds to reach him when she thought that he’d been hurt, when actually he’d been invulnerable the entire time.

So, once she gets him back to the penthouse she needs to leave him. She should probably see to the most worrying of his wounds first. Celestial or not, that gunshot wound won’t heal properly without some kind of intervention, she guesses. But after that, she’s just going to have to fight her instincts to stay with him the best she can and leave.

No matter how difficult it might be for her.

He protected her and now she must repay that by leaving him alone.

It’s for the best. For him.

Driving through the side streets is easy, this part of town is all but abandoned at this time. It’s when she pulls out onto the highway that she’s hit with a feeling of dread. Cars, bumper to bumper, as far as the eye can see. Traffic is usually bad during the Friday rush, but not this bad. There must have been an accident or something.

 _Lucky them_. Nothing can ever be easy, can it?

She taps the steering wheel impatiently for a good ten minutes as they crawl at a snail’s pace along the asphalt. Seemingly unending lines of red taillights taunt her like eyes in the darkness as far as she can see. Her eyes flicker to her siren.

She shouldn’t use it; she’s technically off duty.

But… she chews on her lip as she wraps her fingers around the steering wheel. Her need to always uphold the law battling her instinct to do what is morally good. It _is_ an emergency. Not one she could exactly justify if she got caught. But who’s going to stop her?

Glancing back at Lucifer, she can see that his eyes are once again closed and even in the darkness she can see the shine of fresh blood on his fingers.

 _Fuck it_.

Gripping the steering wheel with renewed vigour, she flips the switch on her dash bringing her lights to life, bathing cars and asphalt alike in flashing blue and red. There’s something completely satisfying about the way the cars in front of her part like the red sea before Moses at the wail of her siren, allowing her safe passage through the sea of traffic.

She vaguely registers Lucifer groaning, mumbling something behind her, but can’t hear him over the sound of her siren.

After that it doesn’t take too long to get within the vicinity of Lux. Thankfully no one pays too much mind to an unmarked police car with its sirens on, weaving through downtown LA’s traffic in response to nothing in particular. Quite frankly, she’s not entirely sure if that’s something to be thankful for or concerned about.

“Lucifer?” she calls over her shoulder, hoping with everything she has that he’s still with her.

There’s a long beat of silence where it feels like her heart is in her throat and then, a low, rough grumble comes. “Huh?”

She peers into her rear-view mirror, catching a glimpse of him as he blinks sluggishly, emerging from his slumber. “You with me?”

“Mm,” he grumbles again. “Mmhm.”

She’ll take that as a ‘ _just about’._ “Do you have a first aid kit at the penthouse?” This is maybe something she should have thought to ask earlier…

There’s the sound of shuffling from behind her and then something bangs against the window. Probably his wing. “First aid…” he parrots drowsily. She’s not sure whether he’s thinking about it or simply trying to understand what she’s asking him.

“Yeah, you know,”— she waves one hand in front of her gesturing to no one in particular— “bandages, stitches, antiseptic, that kind of thing.”

Thankfully this time he does answer, showing that he is understanding her, only the answer doesn’t exactly fill her with joy. “Ma’be…”

“ _’Maybe’?”_ she repeats sceptically. “You don’t know? How could you not know?”

“’M immortal…” he answers, his words slurred to a worrying degree. “ _Usually.”_

 _Right_. An immortal being has no need for band aids. Brilliant. Just brilliant. “What about Lux?” The club has hundreds of guests each night, surely, they must have something. “Is there a first aid kit in Lux?”

He hums, giving her some semblance of hope before crushing it again with a simple, “Don’t know….”

How could he not know? But of course, he’s Lucifer. He doesn’t manage the day-to-days of his club, much less see to injured humans. Lux probably does have something in the way of first aid, but who’s to say it has what she needs? She’d be better off stopping by a store and picking up some supplies, just to be certain.

Yep, she’s going to have to make a stop. Lucifer will be fine in the car for five minutes as long as she parks somewhere dark, no one will look inside the car. _Hopefully._

“I need to make a stop at the store,” she tells him.

An indifferent little “’Kay,” is the only reply she gets before he falls silent once more.

It doesn’t take her too long to pick out a small pharmacy with a fairly empty parking lot. She pulls into the furthest spot from the entrance, away from the streetlamps that illuminate the sidewalk, and turns off the ignition. Unbuckling her seatbelt, she turns in her seat, resting her hand on the headrest to get a proper look at him in the back. Surprisingly, he’s got his eyes open this time, she can just see the glisten of them staring back at her in the darkness.

“I’ll be back in five minutes,” she tells him, not able to help the feeling of guilt that she gets from even the thought of leaving him alone, even for a few moments. “Will you be okay?” It’s mostly an automatic question, she will have to go whatever his answer, even though she’s sure he’d never tell her anything other than what he thinks she wants to hear.

“Uh-huh,” he replies slowly, barely making any other sound as he just lies there, splayed out in the back of her car. The light from the streetlamp that actually manages to reach them casts eerie shadows over one side of his face, accentuating the dark circles under his eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks.

So badly does she want to just sit with him, to hold him and pull her fingers through his unruly mess of jet-black hair. To offer him some form of comfort. To tell him that she’s there for him and that… that she _loves_ him.

_Later Decker._

She has to keep constantly reminding herself to keep moving forward. That there’s no time to dwell on the feelings that sit between them right now. No matter how badly she may want to.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks, chewing the inside of her cheek as she fends off the urge that tells her she could be doing something more.

He grumbles at that. “A drink,” he drawls out, “’n some smokes.”

She can’t help but raise an eyebrow at him, narrowly managing to hold back an eyeroll. Should she really expect anything else from him after all this time though? “It’s a _pharmacy_ , Lucifer, I doubt they sell whiskey and cigarettes.”

“Doesn’t ha’ to be whiskey…” he replies drearily.

Her heart aches at the sadness that she hears in his voice, another jab that makes her feel like a failure for not being able to help him. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says quietly as she slides out of the car, leaving him behind.

She glances over her shoulder before entering the store, scanning the area for anyone who might get too close to the car. There are a few people milling about on the sidewalk, but, as she’s come to realise with age, people have a tendency to keep to themselves.

Lucifer will be fine. Even if she can see part of his wing smushed against the back window. And besides, if anyone did notice, this is LA, the land of excessive wealth and movie magic. Nothing seems to be _too strange_ for this city. Hell, there isn’t much she would question at this point.

The door to the pharmacy dings as she pushes it open, announcing her presence. Inside, the store is fairly empty. One elderly woman stands in the back aisle, scrutinising what looks like vitamin bottles through thick rimmed glasses. A too-tall-for-his-frame _boy_ sits behind the counter. He barely looks old enough to have a job.

She probably looks a fright under the harsh electric light, her white blouse filthy and blood stained, so it’s no wonder when his glazed over eyes widen as his gaze falls upon her. His eyes follow her as she sheepishly makes her way to the aisle that houses a small selection of emergency medical supplies, trying her best to keep her head down.

There really isn’t much choice at all. Her eyes linger on the teeny tiny “pocket sized” first aid kits for a moment before she grabs one. It isn’t much, but it’ll have to do. She also picks up a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a handful of extra-large bandages and wound dressings. Quickly scanning over the rest of the shelf, her eyes are drawn to a small section of survival kits. An emergency blanket, a sewing kit, a whistle, torch and a few other handy little things that you’d want to have if you were going out into the wilderness. Thankfully, the sewing kit and the blanket are just what she needs.

Gathering all her stuff under one arm, she takes it over to the counter and dumps it in a heap in front of the young cashier. He looks at her, then at the pile of supplies, and blinks several times before seemingly snapping himself out of it.

“One moment,” she tells him just as he’s about to start ringing her items up. She wanders over to a stand at the side of the checkout that’s filled with drinks and snacks. There’s certainly no whiskey or cigarettes to be seen. Lucifer will just have to make do with iced tea and… _uh…_ cool ranch puffs? He likes those, doesn’t he?

Well, as far as junk food goes, Lucifer seems to have no quarrels about what he puts in his body. She’s frequently seen him raiding the vending machine at work and practically inhaling the whole lot of it in a matter of minutes. She does specifically remember him expressing his fondness for these particular snacks though, somewhere deep in her very early memories of when they first started working together.

Hopefully he still likes them.

Taking the iced tea and chips to the till, she adds them to the pile of stuff.

“Is that… _uh,_ is that everything?” the boy asks, hesitantly, almost sounding a little bit wary.

“Uh, yeah. That’s everything.” She clears her throat, wringing her hands behind her back and quietly hoping that he doesn’t point out the blood stains on her clothing.

He takes one item after another, scanning each, but despite him keeping his head down, she doesn’t fail to notice the way his gaze keeps flickering up to her, before quickly falling again.

When he’s finished scanning, he stops and seemingly begins to shuffle on the spot. Almost as though he’s fighting himself about something. He wrings his hands together in front of himself as he slowly pulls his gaze back up to her face. “That’ll be thirty-three nighty-nine,” he says before clearing his throat.

She pulls her card out of her pocket and holds it out, waiting for him to start the machine. Only his face pales at the sight of her hands. Obviously, she hadn’t done _that_ good a job of cleaning them.

“Is that uh…” he starts tentatively, “is that blood?”

He swallows thickly, his rather large Adam’s apple bobbing along the long line of his throat. His eyes linger on her fingers before flitting back to the rather big patch of red at her side, where Lucifer had been leaning against her. 

“Can I just pay please?” she snaps, not able to help the feeling of irritation that swells within her at the unnecessary hold up. 

But he still just stands there, staring at her, before suddenly jarring into motion. Only in the _wrong_ direction. He takes a step backwards, away from the counter and points jerkily to a door that must lead to the backroom. “I think I should call the police.”

She sighs heftily. “Look,” she says quickly, halting his hurry to the phone, “I _am_ the police.” She pulls her badge from the waistband of her pants and slams it down on the checkout before her. “Now _please_ can I just pay?”

He swallows again, his mouth opening and closing as his gaze dances skittishly over her gleaming shield and then very quickly back to her. Or more specifically, to her waistband, where she has no doubt that her service weapon is now at least partially visible to him. “Uh, right,” he manages after a long, tense moment, seeming very unsure of himself. “Sure.” He moves quickly back to the till and then keeps his head down as he presses the button to work the card machine.

It’s a relief just to get it over and done with, though worry does stir in the back of her mind as she thinks about the possibility of him calling the police after she’s gone. Or worse. What if he were to watch her go back to her car? What if he sees Lucifer as they drive away?

Maybe coming here was a bad idea. Maybe she should have just waited until after she’d gotten Lucifer to the penthouse. But there’s nothing she can do about it now. What’s done is done. She will just have to be extra careful and hope that the young man knows what is best for him and minds his own business.

She watches as he slowly places each of her items into a paper bag, not missing how his fingers tremble as he moves. Somewhere deep down she feels bad for exposing someone to this, for _scaring_ an innocent person, but she also knows that it would have been far worse had she not. If she’d left Lucifer to heal, he wouldn’t have been able to make his own way to safety. Many more people would have been exposed to something far more disturbing than a bit of blood. Who knows what would have happened then…?

 _She’s doing the right thing—_ the only thing she could do.

“Thank you,” she tells the cashier, forcing a smile as he finishes packing the last of her items into the bag.

He merely nods timidly in response, retreating as far away as possible from her as she exits the store.

The doorbell dings as she pushes the door open and escapes the confines of the store and the scrutiny of the cashier. She glances over her shoulder through the window to see if he’s watching her, but he’s gone. Hopefully he isn’t calling the cops.

Best to move quickly just in case.

Lucifer is still exactly where she’d left him in the back of the car when she returns. Not that she’d really expected anything else; she’s not sure he could even get out without her help. It’s good to know that there have been no incidents while she was gone though.

“Hey,” she says when she opens the back door and sets the paper bag down beside his broken wing.

He stirs a little, his eyes cracking open to follow her movements as she pulls out a few items, reaching to the bottom to grab the little packet that contains the emergency blanket. “Did you see anyone come near the car?”

“No,” he replies gruffly, reaching out to grab something from the pile of stuff that she’s discarded from the bag. “Rubbin’ alcohol?” he asks, meekly managing to raise an eyebrow at her.

She hums back, too distracted with unwrapping the blanket, to take much notice of him. He’s alive, that’s all that matters. The shiny foil crinkles beneath her fingers as she unfolds it, spreading it the best she can to its full size. Luckily it seems to be more than big enough to cover Lucifer and a decent portion of his wings, and it’ll keep him warm, hopefully enough so to preserve whatever energy he has left.

He grumbles again before mumbling, “Well it’ll ‘av to do.”

When she looks up, to her horror, she sees that he’s unscrewed the top of the bottle of rubbing alcohol and is now lifting it to his lips.

 _“No!”_ she cries, dropping the blanket and quickly leaning over to snatch the bottle from his hand. “That’s not for you to _drink!_ Are you _crazy?”_

A whine forms in the back of his throat as she takes it away from him, managing to spill a bit down his shirt in the process.

 _“This,”_ — she grabs the bottle of iced tea from the bag and shoves it towards him— “is for you to drink.”

He eyes the bottle of semi-translucent brown liquid critically, well, as critically as he is able to, before taking it. “What is it?”

“Iced tea,” she states plainly, recapping the rubbing alcohol and placing it well out of his reach.

For a fraction of a second, she would almost say his face lights up with delight. “Long island?”

“No,” she replies, crushing his hopes with one simple syllable.

His expression quickly morphs into one of annoyance, jutting out his bottom lip and screwing his face up slightly, making him look rather like a petulant little boy as he drops the bottle at his side.

“And I got you these,” she tells him, passing him the packet of cool ranch puffs.

“’M not hungry,” he groans, turning away from her slightly and not even taking the packet from her hand.

 _Exactly_ like a child having a tantrum.

She sighs, trying her very best not to get annoyed with him. “Alright,” she huffs, tossing the packet to land somewhere near his yet to be touched _non-alcoholic_ iced tea.

He falls silent after that as she returns to unfolding the blanket. When she’s done, she starts to spread it out over him the best she can, stretching to reach as far into the car from the door as possible without leaning on his wing.

“What’s this?” he asks quietly, frowning as he takes the thin foil in his hand and crinkles it between his fingers.

“It’s a blanket,” she says, huffing slightly as she fights to keep it spread out evenly. “It’ll help keep you warm.”

She looks up at him and his frown deepens. “Doesn’t feel like a blanket.”

“It is,” she tells him, finally pulling herself upright to look at him fully. The blanket covers most of his body, and some of his wings. They still stick out a fair bit, especially where they press against the windows though. “It’s shiny, so it reflects your body heat back to you and keeps you warm.”

“Oh,” he mumbles back, pulling the blanket up a little, almost to his chin and sinking under it. “Thanks….”

“That’s okay,” she replies, managing a small, fond little smile at the sight of his eyelids drooping as he settles in. “We should get going, it’s not too much further to Lux now.”

He merely grumbles in response, looking like he’s already well on his way to falling asleep under there.

She glances back at the pharmacy window as she rounds the car and opens the driver’s side door. The young cashier is standing there again, peering out and looking at her…. She wonders how long he’s been watching her and what he’s seen but forces herself to shake the thought as she slides into the driver’s seat.

It’s probably nothing....

It’s not even fifteen minutes later when she realises that it wasn’t nothing.

They are two blocks away from Lux when the tell-tale flash of blue and red illuminates her rearview mirror alerting her to the fact that she’s being pulled over. She hadn’t been speeding, or unlawfully using her siren, so the only conclusion that her overly tired mind can conjure is that the cashier _did_ in fact call the cops on her.

_Damn it._

Panic threatens to bubble up inside her as she pulls her car over to the side of the road. There’s no use in running at this point, it will only make her look suspicious.

“ _Lucifer,”_ she hisses, her tone filled with impending dread, “hide under the blanket.” She doesn’t even bother to wait for his response before giving him the command. There simply isn’t time to waste here.

“Huh?” a confused little sound comes. “Why?”

She throws a quick glance over her shoulder and just catches his dark eyes shining back at her. “I’m being pulled over. I _need_ you to hide under the blanket and stay quiet.” After a beat she adds, _“Please,”_ imploring him for just once in his life to _listen_ to her.

But much to her disdain, she still doesn’t hear the crinkle of the foil blanket moving to cover himself. A quick glance in her wing mirror tells her that the other patrol car has pulled up behind her. The officer is getting out of the car as they speak. They only have a minute, _at most._

“What ‘bout my wings?” he asks.

They don’t have _time for this_. She’s starting to panic as she catches a glimpse of the officer walking along the road behind her car. “ _Lucifer_ , I’ve _got this._ Just _hide_ , okay?” she snaps through gritted teeth, fingers tensing around the steering wheel. “ _Trust me.”_

It’s then that some tiny semblance of relief washes over her as she finally hears the crinkling of the foil behind her.

“Stay still, and stay quiet, alright?” she adds in a hushed tone as the officer approaches her window.

The tap on the glass mere moments later distracts her from whatever response Lucifer has to give. Adrenaline surges through her veins as the officer shines his flashlight through the window, causing her to have to squint against the brightness.

_Act normal, Chloe._

She tells herself that she can do this. She was an actor once, maybe not a very successful one, but an actor, nonetheless. Nothing is amiss here; she’s just heading to a friend’s after a long day of work. Nothing more.

Maybe she doesn’t feel fully prepared for this, but there’s no time left, so, taking a calming breath, she rolls her window down. The officer points his torch downwards, allowing her eyes to adjust and actually see his face. He looks about her age, maybe a little older, judging by the lines that crease his features. His hazelnut eyes scan over her, before flickering over the inside of the car.

He seems vaguely familiar, but her mind is too occupied to figure out why. The gleaming golden name tag affixed to his navy shirt identifies him as Officer Anderson. Still doesn’t ring any bells, though in fairness there’s nothing outstandingly remarkable about the fellow as he sports a neat, brown buzzcut that is quite popular among ex-military, a group which makes up a fair portion of the LAPD’s officers.

She manages to force a smile, though she’s afraid it comes across as more of a grimace than anything else. “What can I do for you, officer?” There’s a slight wobble in her voice that she hopes to hell he doesn’t notice.

_Get it together, Decker. Act natural._

“I need to see some identification, ma’am,” he tells her in a very cop-like, no-nonsense tone.

She hums in response, nodding as her over-occupied mind tries to comprehend what he’s asking her. After a second or two, she jars to life, scrambling to grab her license from the glove compartment and her badge, not wanting to keep him waiting any longer than necessary, lest he get too curious. “Here,” she replies, handing him her license, acutely aware of the blood that can be seen on her fingers.

His gaze lingers on her outstretched hand for one, almost unbearably long moment. He opens his mouth, one hand hovering dangerously close to his holster, before she quickly adds, “And… um, my badge!”

All at once his expression seems to relax as he sees the gleaming shield being offered to him. The tension drains from his posture as he takes both the licence and the badge from her. For a moment, he looks over her information, and seems satisfied with what he’s seeing. Hopefully that is the case. “Detective Chloe Decker?” he asks, gaze flitting from her license to her face, as if comparing the photograph.

“That’s me,” she says, a little too sheepishly. Not knowing what he’s looking for is putting her on edge.

The officer sighs with what strangely seems like relief. “That is a relief.”

_“Oh?”_

He hums back at her, handing her IDs back. “Yeah, we got a call about some suspicious activity. Thought we better check it out.”

So it was that cashier after all. _Bastard._ At least her fellow officer doesn’t seem too intent on digging any deeper than he has to now he knows she’s a cop. She’s not sure whether that’s something she ought to be concerned about or not. At the moment, it’s not really something she has time to dwell on.

He pauses, looking thoughtful and rolling his jaw as he continues to eye her critically, though it gives her a different feeling than before. It’s almost friendlier somehow. “I feel like I know you from somewhere,” he says slowly, rubbing one hand over his messily stubbled jaw line. “Hey,” he says suddenly, before she has a chance to even think about the fact that she gets a similar feeling, his eyes lighting up as he has a ‘light bulb’ moment, “aren’t you Lucifer’s partner?”

_Lucifer’s partner._

She has to bite the inside of her lip to keep herself from rolling her eyes at him. “ _Uh_ , yeah,” she manages to reply, forcing herself to keep smiling, “actually he’s _my_ partner, technically a _civilian consultant.”_

“Right,” he drawls out. “Well I love that guy, you know, he’s a wonder. Did me a favour a few years back. Ever since, everything has just been so great, I mean—”

“Yeah, he’s good at that sort of thing,” Chloe cuts him off, not really caring to hear about whatever Lucifer did for him. Not right now anyway, not when they are so close to their destination.

He chuckles as if he’s forgotten himself. “I’m sorry, you’ve probably got somewhere to be. Where are you heading?” His eyes flicker to the back of the car, and then widen.

A sinking feeling settles in the pit of Chloe’s stomach.

“Wha—” he gapes at the back window, presumably having seen the exposed part of Lucifer’s wing. “What is _that?”_ His face pales in an instant and she knows she only has seconds to come up with a half decent excuse before he panics. Something that he can accept that will allow him to bury the truth deep within his mind. She knows how it is. She’s done it so many times over the years.

“Uh…” she stutters, willing herself to say something, _anything_. Lucifer’s wings are scary and big, _hellish_ is the word he would use to describe them. In fact, they almost look like something you might see in a horror movie. What can she possibly say that— “Oh! Those are Halloween decorations,” she tells him quickly, feeling ridiculously proud for coming up with something on the spot like that.

Anderson looks more than relieved too, his face relaxing back into an amicable smile.

“Yeah, I was… uh… you see they’re Lucifer’s _actually_. The _wings_ I mean,” she stammers, wishing she could just melt into the floor as her cheeks flush red hot. “I was just… _collecting_ them for him… to take to his place. And there was this whole thing with, you know, _fake blood_.”

 _Fake blood?_ Why did she say that? Why didn’t she just _stop talking?_

She tries to smile, nodding a little too enthusiastically as the words spill from her lips. Anderson’s smile wavers as she keeps talking. He’s clearly struggling to put the pieces together.

“A fake blood accident, I guess you could call it.” She laughs a little nervously, gesturing to her ruined blouse. “I think I scared the guy at the pharmacy.”

_Good lord Chloe stop talking._

He frowns, seemingly considering her story for one long, tense moment before he once again breaks out into a smile. It was a truly awful story. Sometimes she can only admire Lucifer for how he manages to spin words and make people believe exactly what he wants to with such ease without actually lying. But, like she once had herself, Anderson accepts it because it’s either that or confront the truth. No rational person would ever do that, not unless they are forced to. Not when there’s an easier option that leaves one’s worldly beliefs intact.

“Alright, better let you get back to it then,” he finally tells her, seeming quite cheery now. “Have a nice evening, Detective.” He’s about to walk away, when he halts in his tracks once more, raising his index finger to her. “Oh and, tell Lucifer I said hi.”

“Sure thing,” she calls after him, sinking down in her chair as relief washes over her. She’s such a terrible liar, how she ever got away with that is completely beyond her.

Behind her, the foil ruffles once again and as she peers in the rear-view mirror, she sees Lucifer emerge from beneath it, looking rather disgruntled. “ _Halloween decorations?”_ he parrots her, sounding more than a little offended at the comparison. “ _How dare you.”_

“What else did you expect me to say?” she asks in disbelief. “ _My partner is in the back, this is his blood, and oh, yeah, he’s actually the Devil. But please let us go about our business anyway!”_

He seems to falter at that. She supposes that there isn’t really much he can say to it. He knows she did her best, and he’s just intent on being awkward about it, for some reason that only he can know. It’s just his… _Lucifer-ness_.

She should know. She’s experienced enough of it over the years. It’s actually, oddly one of the things she loves about him. That he’s older than time itself, a celestial being who has an immense amount of power at his disposal, who has seen unimaginable, untold horrors and yet, he still has the capacity to act like a complete and utter child at the best of times. It often irritates her something awful, but most of the time, she just finds it weirdly endearing.

“Don’t even bloody like Halloween…” he grumbles to himself as he settles back down.

She chuckles at that absolute perfect example of her point. Of course that’s his takeaway from this, that she thinks he looks like a _Halloween decoration_. Because everything is always about _him_ , isn’t it? “Who doesn’t like Halloween?” she asks, a little playfully, not able to resist messing with him.

 _“Me,_ ” he groans back at her. “’S a bloody _mockery,_ is what it is.”

“If you say so,” she replies, finding it exceedingly more difficult to suppress the smile that’s creeping across her face. “Anyway,” she says, still smiling fondly as she swiftly changes the subject, “let’s get you home.”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s a little less than five minutes later that she is pulling into the Lux building parking lot. Outside the front, bouncers appear to be setting up, ready to open for their usual Friday night festivities, though she’s sure the rush isn’t going to start for at least a few more hours yet.

Lucky for them. Less people about is only going to make it easier to get up to the penthouse without being spotted.

She drives to the back of the parking lot and pulls into the spot closest to the elevator, Lucifer’s personal spot. His beloved Corvette is presumably still at the precinct, where he’d met her this morning. It’s only then does she realise her mistake.

_The elevator._

The one that Lucifer usually uses to get to his penthouse is far too small. She glances over her shoulder, taking in his massive wingspan once more. There’s no way she’s going to get him in there without risking something getting caught in the doors.

But there’s another way. This building must have a service elevator somewhere; most high-rise buildings do. Considering Lucifer has a piano in his apartment, she’d wager that there is one. She’s never seen it, but then again, she’s never had reason to use it. In fact, there’s a lot of this building that she hasn’t seen. There are thirteen stories between Lux and the penthouse and, as far as she’s aware, Lucifer owns all of them. Does he rent them out, or does he have some kind of use for them?

“Lucifer, this building has a service elevator, right?” she asks, hoping that the answer is yes. Though if it’s no then she’s going to have some serious questions about his piano.

He hums what she thinks is an affirmative before adding, “S’round back.”

_Thank goodness._

Pulling out of the parking lot once more, she sets off for what she hopes is the last time tonight.

Thankfully, she locates the service elevator around the back of the building, just where Lucifer had said it would be. It’s in what looks like a loading area with wooden pallets and kegs stacked high against the walls. There’s a heavy metal door that she presumes leads into the backrooms of Lux. Must be where they get their deliveries in. It looks like no one is here now though, the staff are likely too occupied getting ready for a busy night inside. Hopefully no one decides to take a smoke break anytime soon…

She pulls up as close to the elevator as possible, so that there’s only a small stretch of asphalt between them and their destination. Exiting the car, she goes to the back and opens Lucifer’s door. The light directly above the loading area gives her a much clearer look at him.

He’s pale, with bags under his eyes and lines in his face that hadn’t been there before. There’s blood smeared on his forehead and cheek, and his hair is a wild mess. Considering what he’s been through though, he looks pretty alert, though she suspects that’s something to do with the amount of pain he’s in.

“How are you feeling?” she asks softly as she gathers up her supplies, placing them back into the paper bag.

He clears his throat, shuffling a little under the thin aluminium blanket. “Bit better,” he replies gruffly. He sounds exhausted. And he’s probably doing worse than he’s letting on, but he’s still awake which is a good sign, and she’s so close to having him home. So close she can almost feel the weight of tonight’s events lifting from her shoulders already.

It’s not time to celebrate yet though.

“Think you can manage to walk a few more steps?”

Shifting himself, he tries to throw the blanket to one side. He only half succeeds, managing to get it caught on one of the spiky parts of his broken wing. She leans over to grab it, pulling it out of his way and folding it over her arm. One patch of it is pretty slick with blood. She suspects it’s where it has clung to his side, where she can still see blood oozing from the wound.

“Yeah,” he huffs, pushing himself to sit upright and reaching out for the handles on the ceiling to support himself.

Gently, she takes a hold of his broken wing and carefully eases it out of the open door, just as she had put it in.

He squirms a little, shuffling forward as she works, and eventually makes his way to the edge of the seat, swinging his legs over the side and out of the car. He flinches when she settles his wing on the floor, causing the joint to bend. _“Ow!”_

“Sorry!” As if she doesn’t feel bad enough already, she has to continue to make mistakes like that.

“’S okay,” he mumbles. He still looks far too pale. And, now that she’s up close, she can see how unfocused his gaze is and the sweat that beads on his forehead, leaving streaks in the blood as they roll down his face.

She lets him stay there for a moment, perched on the edge of the seat, broken wing on the floor and the okay-ish one still behind him, folded into his body. The area that surrounds them is silent save for the rumble of traffic from the main street and his ragged, wheezing breaths.

Now that he’s within her reach, she’s suddenly overcome with the intense urge to hold him. To wrap her arms around his body and press her lips to his temple. To whisper against his skin that everything’s going to be alright.

Her hand moves almost unconsciously as she finds herself sinking into these thoughts. But still she finds herself hesitating, her fingers stopping mere inches away from his cheek as he looks back at her with wide eyes. There’s just so much doubt in her mind and she’s so tired. It’s a struggle to filter out the rational thoughts from the irrational.

Sure, she’d told him she loves him, just as she had done before, and she’d kissed him. A quiet, desperate plea for him to keep going for her. But she still doesn’t know what he wants. He went to Hell— he _left her_ for all those months, and then he returns and acts as if everything is just how it always has been between them.

Despite telling her he loved her that night before he left. Well… _almost_. It wasn’t _those_ words exactly, but it’s probably the closest thing she will ever get from him.

Did something change while he was away? Or did he just not mean it in the first place? There are so many unanswered questions brewing in her mind.

All she knows for sure is that she can’t go on not knowing. She _loves him_. If today has shown her anything, it’s that she can’t bear losing him again.

Once he’s safe and feeling better, they _are_ going to talk about this. About everything. She’s going to have to insist upon it. But for now, she just needs to focus on getting him up to the penthouse.

Her outstretched hand still floats in the space between them, and finally she allows herself to gently press her fingers to his cheek. He relaxes then, his eyelids falling to half-mast as he melts into her touch, his cheek settling against her palm. His skin feels clammy yet cold against hers.

Her eyes can’t help but flicker to the backdoor of Lux. They are exposed here. Someone could come through at any moment and the results would be nothing short of disastrous. Everything they’ve been through tonight will have been for nothing. To have gotten so far only to lose in the home stretch…. the thought is unbearable.

They should really get moving.

Without hesitation, she takes his hand in hers. Her breath catches in her throat as his fingers curl, weakly squeezing her hand in his grip. She’s overcome with the feeling that it feels right there. Like the last piece of the puzzle slotting into place. The weight is a comfort in her palm.

Their eyes meet and linger for a moment before she takes his arm and gently manoeuvres herself under it, giving him her support as he plants his feet firmly on the ground.

He manages to stand with relative ease, using both her and the top of the car door for support. As she looks at him though she can see the muscles in his jaw tensing as he clenches his teeth against the pain that comes with movement. Overall, he seems to manage it pretty well, considering. The first few steps are the slowest, him dragging one foot forward before bringing the other to meet it, edging them away from the car agonisingly slowly.

She kicks the car door closed behind her, not wanting to leave Lucifer’s side and not having a free hand what with the bag of supplies to carry as well. The bang it makes causes him to jump, a motion that would have been imperceptible had he not been leaning up against her.

They close the gap between them and the elevator in no time at all… well, relative to the amount of time they’d spent walking from the warehouse to the car before. Compared to that, these few feet feel like an easy victory. One that she will happily take.

When they get there, Lucifer slaps his palm against the wall beside the lift door, leaning on it heavily as he catches his breath, taking some of the weight off her. Now that she’s stood up and moving again, she realises how badly her body is aching. Her legs are burning with the exertion and her shoulders and back throb from bearing a decent amount of weight for so long. She really can’t complain though. Not when her grievances are so minor compared to his. He’s been soldiering on throughout all of this, and in fairness to him, he’s hardly complained at all, considering he’s got a bullet in his side, a broken wing, and a litany of other injuries.

She really has no excuse to be anything but strong.

Unsurprisingly, when she hits the elevator call button, the doors open almost immediately, despite the passcode lock on the wall beside it. For some unfathomable reason, Lucifer has always had an aversion to locking his doors, even if it means putting the people he cares about at risk…

The mere thought of that night when Trixie almost—

_No_. Don’t go back there. Not now. She squeezes her eyes closed, swallowing the bitter taste in her mouth, and pulls on his arm, tugging him inside the elevator.

The space is more than big enough to accommodate his wings without issue, though there certainly isn’t room left for much else in there. He settles quickly, slumped against the back wall, his knees looking like they are about to give way at any second. She carefully steps over his broken wing that is, for the most part, on the floor, to hit the penthouse button, returning to her position at his side as the doors slide closed in front of them.

And with that, they are _safe._ Finally, they are hidden from the outside world, in a place where she can put to rest that feeling of impending dread that someone will _see_ him.

She did it.

_No._

_They_ did it.

-

The elevator ride up to the penthouse is easy. As it turns out, getting him through the apartment and to his bedroom from where the service elevator resides in the back, is _not._

Despite the open planned nature of the space, navigating it with a semi-conscious archangel and his sizable wingspan is a challenge. To say the least.

Not only do what-can-only-be precious and _ridiculously_ valuable personal possessions get smashed, whacked and flung across the room without mercy at the hand of his… _wings_ , but then, there are _stairs._ The walk through and subsequent, _unintentional_ trashing of his kitchen seems like a stroll in the park compared to the mountain of stairs that looms before them.

It’s the last hurdle between them and the bedroom. They just need to _jump it_ and they will be free and clear.

For one long moment, as they stand at the bottom of the relatively short (but not when you’re towing what feels like a half ton Devil on your shoulder) stairs, she contemplates the possibility of stopping in the kitchen. She could patch him up down here and _then_ move him to the bedroom. But that’s conditional on if he can actually stay awake and conscious through it. Otherwise it would mean leaving him on the kitchen floor….

As she looks at him now, she can already see he’s on the edge, exhaustion and pain clouding his mind so much that he’s barely said a coherent word since they left the car. They’ve come too far to give up now. Getting him to his bedroom is the best choice.

Little did she realise that while she’s been standing there, contemplating this decision, Lucifer already seems to have drifted further into the land of slumber, leaning more heavily on her as his eyes flutter shut. Even soft little snores grumble in the back of his throat.

“Lucifer.” She nudges him in the ribs, not too hard of course, making sure to avoid his injuries. “Wake up.”

An irritated sound erupts from his lips, his eyes cracking open to train his gaze on whoever has dared to interrupt his nap. “ _What?”_ he groans moodily.

“ _Wake up!”_ she nudges him again, gaining not a very nice glare in response.

“Wasn’t ‘sleep,” he mumbles back, blinking groggily as he readjusts to his surroundings.

She can’t help but raise an eyebrow at him. “You were _snoring,”_ she deadpans.

He grumbles unhappily. “I do _not_ snore,” he utters, almost under his breath, sounding very much like he’s offended by the accusation.

“How would you know?” She finds herself almost laughing back at him, amused to no end by his blatant denial.

The noise he makes in response is somewhere between a complaint and an annoyed huff, and it succeeds only to make the smile that has crept across her face widen. Somehow, even in a situation as dire as this one, they still make each other laugh. She knows now that a bond like that, a relationship with someone whose personality is the ying to your yang, is a rare thing indeed. It is a gift to be treasured.

It’s just a shame that it took him leaving for her to realise that.

She wraps her arm a little tighter around his waist, getting ready to face the mountainous task ahead of them. He still seems to exude a warmth that seeps into her body, despite him saying that he’s cold. Now that she thinks about it, he’s always been warm. She’s felt it before, every time their hands have brushed against each other’s, every time she’s held his body against hers, and the few times that their lips have met. He’s always been so warm, so _welcoming_. There’s just something comforting about it— about _him._

Maybe it’s an angel thing. Or maybe it’s a _Hell_ thing. The only thing she knows for certain is, that for her, it’s a _Lucifer_ thing.

“Alright, come on,” she says, squeezing him just a little, just to make sure he’s still with her and isn’t slipping back into a standing slumber. “It’s just a few steps, okay?”

An unhappy little grumble tumbles from his lips. “Bloody hell, woman, will it ever end?”

She rolls her eyes. It never ceases to amaze her how dramatic he manages to be. “It’s just to your bedroom, and then that’s it. I _promise.”_

He huffs, a hefty but weary thing. _“Fine.”_

After that, they take it one step at a time. Quite _literally._

He lifts one foot up, planting it down on the dark mahogany step, before dragging the other one to join them. It’s slow. Slower than _slow_ , really. She’s fairly certain that a snail could climb faster than they are, and about halfway up, she does start to regret this decision. Maybe it would have been easier to stay downstairs.

But they trudge onwards, as they always seem to do, anyway.

It’s difficult. Lucifer huffs and puffs with exertion, grunting in pain with every step they clear, and his wings don’t do them any favours. Even tucked in, his good wing still scratches the hardwood of the archway above their heads. The bad one simply… _drags_ behind them, probably slowing them down even further and picking up more damage along the way.

In the end, they get there though. Emerging from the archway between the bookshelves into his living room should feel like a victory, only… her mind is too occupied with the sight that greets her.

The place is a _mess_. Completely trashed. His beloved penthouse looks like a storm has torn through it. The couches are overturned, the cushions torn, spilling their guts over the glass covered floor. It looks like everything that can be broken has been smashed, gutted, or pulled apart with absolutely no mercy whatsoever. Except his piano. Maybe it’s some form of miracle that the instrument he holds so dear is seemingly untouched in the midst of this destruction.

But she suspects otherwise.

Her initial thought, that this is some kind of home invasion, is quickly disregarded. No one would come here and break all these priceless things when they could take them instead. That, coupled with the fact that his piano remains untouched and the heavy mahogany desk— the one that usually sits in the far corner of the room— is now _torn_ to pieces and scattered all over the place, paints the picture for her.

This was done in _anger,_ and not by any human.

_Lucifer_ did this. The only question is why?

Now that she thinks about it, since he came back, he’s been very insistent on meeting her either at the precinct or in the parking lot, but never in the penthouse. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, what with the distance between them that she couldn’t seem to close. But now… it’s clear something else has been going on.

And whatever that something is, it can’t be good.

Dread settles in her stomach as they walk to the bedroom, glass crunching beneath their feet with every step. As she takes in her surroundings the feeling only intensifies, twisting her insides, gnawing away at her.

_“What happened here?”_ The question slips from her lips before she’s able to stop it. She’s not sure she wants to know, but if she has any hope of fixing whatever has broken between them, she _needs_ to know.

His reply is simple. Two words that break her heart.

_“I did.”_

The syllables are sharp and harsh on his tongue, spat out almost as if he _hates_ himself for it. And suddenly she’s back there again, before he left, hearing those words from beneath a plastered grin. _“I hate myself.”_ Only this time it’s far worse. His words hold such pure revulsion, such unfiltered abhorrence, that it sends a shiver down her spine.

“Why?” The word comes eventually, not without thought, because she has thought about it, and nothing she can come up with explains this.

They make it to the bedroom before she pushes him any further on the topic. The space obviously hasn’t taken the brunt of the damage, and it doesn’t look half as bad as the living room.There’s a bit of glass on the floor from the mirror that looks like it’s been punched, and the chair that usually sits in the corner of the room is overturned, but that’s about it. She helps him lower himself, until he’s slumped down on the edge of the bed. The wing he’s had folded spreads out behind him, hanging limply in the air, whilst the other falls off the edge of the bed to rest on the floor.

“Lucifer,” she says softly, setting her bag of supplies on the floor beside the bed and moving to stand before him, looking into his dark brown eyes, imploring him to open up to her. To let her _in._ “I don’t understand.”

He looks up to meet her gaze and she already knows what he’s going to say. His features are so filled with sorrow and anguish, remnants of whatever darkness is brewing inside him leaking out. She knows the look because they’ve been here before, years ago now.

“You _can’t_ understand,” he replies quietly, his lips pressed into a distressed curve. His lips part again, like he wants to say something more but only, “ _I can’t—”_ comes out before he closes back up again.

Locking her out. Even after everything they’ve been through together. She can’t help but feel hurt by that.

But he’s injured and he’s in a safe place at last, so she shouldn’t hang around longer than she has to, not with her making him mortal. She just bites her lip and nods, trying to fight off the tears that suddenly sting her eyes, because maybe he’s right. Maybe she can never truly understand him. Maybe the gap between them can never be bridged.

The thought _terrifies her._

She has to carry on though, has to try to _fix_ this. This— whatever is between them, whatever they _have—_ is special, and she isn’t going to give it up without a fight. Not as long as he’s still here with her. Right now, the only thing she can do is help make sure he sticks around long enough for her to do that.

Her gaze flits around the room. The bed is already messy, but it doesn’t appear to be damaged, so she walks around it and straightens the sheets, shifting and fluffing the pillows so that he can lie down comfortably. The various pill bottles that lay scattered on the bedside table don’t escape her view. Nor does the Hell forged blade that she thought belonged to Maze on the floor at the other side of the room.

For now, she has to ignore all the red flags that are waving so blatantly in front of her face and just focus on him. One problem at a time.

She helps him settle on the bed, gently manoeuvring his wing as he shuffles backwards until he can lie down with his head sinking into the stack of silk covered pillows.

His eyes close as a lot of the tension he’d been carrying leeches from his body. He doesn’t seem to care that she’s still here, even though she could be leaving already and letting him heal. But his hand has settled on his side where the bullet has torn through him, and she can still see that his fingers are slick with blood.

The bleeding might stop on its own if she leaves, but she’s not willing to take that chance. She walks around to the other side of the bed and crouches down, carefully picking up the bedside lamp from where it has been thrown to the floor. There’s a crack branching down the glass sphere, but it’s still plugged in, so when she touches it, it flickers on, casting a soft glow over the room.

She rights the small bedside table from which it had come and places it on top, before going to sit herself on the edge of the bed at his side.

Her hand reaches out, her fingers going for the hand that shields his wound, but she stops short, unsure of herself.

“I’m going to take a look at this.” She pauses, before adding a wary, “Is that okay?”

His eyes crack open, looking at her before falling to his bloodied side. He doesn’t say anything, but his fingers slowly lift away, revealing the swirling mess of deep red below.

She pushes back his suit jacket, turning herself on the bed to kneel with one knee tucked beneath her, gaining a better vantage point to assess his wounds. The white fabric of his shirt clings to his flesh, almost indiscernible at the wound site where it’s sodden with blood. Her fingers drift towards the buttons of his shirt, intent on unfastening them, but she hesitates, pulling her gaze up to meet his.

“May I?” she asks, fingers still hovering over the little white buttons.

An expression flickers over his face so fast that she barely has time to figure out what it is before it disappears again, hidden beneath his carefully constructed façade. He almost looked… tentative, or even afraid, as if she’s going to see something that he doesn’t want her to.

But she’s seen him before, _all of him._ And on more than a few occasions. She’s sure his reaction is nothing for her to worry about. After all, when you love the Devil, there’s really nothing much left in the world to scare you. Apart from maybe the thought of losing him.

After a moment though, he hums, nodding slightly to give her the go ahead.

Her fingers, slippery with his blood, fumble over the buttons, leaving them red as she unfastens them one by one. When she’s done, she takes a breath, bracing herself for what she’s about to see. It’s not the blood and guts that bother her; she’s been a homicide detective for far too long for that, but the thought of seeing the full extent of him being hurt, because of her.

Slowly, she peels back one side of his shirt as it sticks to the ravaged flesh below. A lump forms in her throat as her eyes become fixated on the gaping wound that still slowly oozes deep red blood.

She doesn’t have the necessary skills or knowledge to deal with this, but she can’t exactly call someone, not when he still can’t put his wings away. All she can do is try and remember everything she knows about administering emergency first aid and hope that the bleeding slows enough for her to leave him to heal. Hopefully it’ll be enough to quell her worry about him bleeding out.

Gunshot wounds. The first step should be to check if the bullet is still inside… she thinks. But what if it is? Is she supposed to take it out? _How_ would she even—

_Stop Decker._ Don’t panic, just take it one step at a time. Check if the bullet is still in the wound, worry about the rest after.

She pulls back his shirt and jacket a little more, trying to move it out of the way as much as possible. It’d be way easier to just ask him if he could take it off, but with his wings out, she’s not sure that’s even possible. His wings seem to be able to manifest _through_ his clothing without tearing them, but how that is possible, she hasn’t the slightest.

“Um,” she starts, wondering how to broach the topic, “Can you take this off?” She worries her lip between her teeth before adding, “Like, with your wings and everything… is that possible?”

He grumbles. “’S probably jus’ easier to cut it,” he replies moodily. Not that she can blame him.

“ _Cut it?”_ she asks in disbelief, her mind unable to comprehend him, _Lucifer Morningstar,_ willingly telling her to destroy one of his suits. “You want me to cut your suit?”

He makes a motion that is sort of a half shrug, but mostly just makes his good wing flail a little. “S’already ruined.” He perks up a little, frowning at her reluctance, and grabs his jacket, sticking his finger through the bullet hole. “See?”

Okay then. If he insists. It’ll certainly make her work easier. She just needs to find a pair of scissors or something. Maze’s demon blade will surely do the trick.

She jumps up from the bed and carefully scoops the hellish blade off the floor, more than aware of how sharp the thing is. After that, she makes quick work of cutting his jacket and shirt away, rendering the expensive designer materials into what is essentially a ball of bloody rags.

It’s then that she sees it though. The thing he must not have wanted her to see, the reason for his trepidation when she’d asked to remove his shirt.

_A scar._

It’s long and jagged, marring the perfectly smooth plain of his abdomen at the opposite side to his current gunshot wound. It looks… _old_ , the healed over scar tissue fully formed, a pale ragged line slightly indented in his flesh.

But it would take _years_ for a scar that big to form. Her shoulder had taken almost a year to transition from angry pink to pale flesh coloured. And this… _this_ is so much bigger than her tiny gunshot wound. It looks like he’s been gutted, the line starting off pointed just above his hip and travelling haphazardly upwards to stop just between his ribs, below his sternum.

He certainly didn’t have that before… before _Hell_. She’d seen him, days before he’d left, and he was _fine_. So, the only reasonable explanation is that he’d gotten it in Hell. But from who or _what?_ _Demons?_ They served him. They _obeyed_ him. Why would they dare do something like this to him?

Suddenly she can feel the full weight of Lucifer’s gaze upon her, as she sits there unwittingly staring at this scar that he was obviously reluctant for her to see. When she looks up, his hardened gaze meets hers. His expression is schooled into a scary kind of calm, almost a warning. As if he’s saying ‘ _don’t ask about it’_ without saying anything at all.

Because he doesn’t want to tell her what happened to him. What _is_ going on with him.

It hurts, but she just nods and covers her sadness with a weak smile, ignoring the tears that prickle her eyes.

She turns her attention back to his wound, the one that’s currently spilling blood onto the nice silk sheets. She could definitely use some towels, a cloth and some water to clean him up a bit, so that she can actually see what she’s doing. Working in a puddle of blood probably won’t end so well.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she tells him as she rises from the bed.

He doesn’t respond, continuing to stare off into the distance looking rather forlorn. For a moment she watches him, waiting for a reply, wishing that he would open up to her, but she knows him too well. Whatever he’s been keeping from her must have been for a good reason. Or at least a reason _he_ thought was a good one. They may not always agree on the things he does to protect her, but there is one thing that she’s certain of deep within her soul. And that if he’s not telling her something, it’s only in a misguided attempt to protect her once again.

She makes her way into the bathroom, holding back tears as her mind helpfully supplies her with many an imaginative way in which he could have gotten that scar. And how _painful_ it must have been. What weight has he been carrying around with him this entire time? She feels awful for not even noticing anything was wrong, even if he had been hiding it. She should have noticed.

Once in the bathroom, she stops at the sink, planting both her hands firmly on the ceramic bowl as she stares into the mirror, only to see a frightful, broken mess staring back at her. There’s blood and dirt smeared on her face, streaked on her cheeks where her tears have cleansed it.

She could let herself fall apart. Could let herself crumble under the weight of everything that’s pressing down on her. But she won’t. Not yet. Not here. Not now. She refuses to.

Almost on autopilot, she turns on the faucet, tentatively testing the water temperature with one finger as it gushes out in a waterfall, splashing into the basin below. The water swirls a dirty pink down the drain as she scrubs his blood from between her fingers, trying her best to rid herself of the older blood that encrusts her fingernails.

She’s soon satisfied with her work, making sure her hands are as clean as she can get them before drying them on the hand towel that hangs just by the sink.

Stopping a moment, she looks around the inordinately large bathroom. It’s sleek and modern, just as the rest of the penthouse is, with a free-standing whirlpool bath taking centre stage. A shower takes up one corner of the room, the sheet glass walls offering no privacy to anyone who were to use it. She can just imagine Lucifer, standing there, water flowing down over him, baring all for the world to see. And she knows from experience that he has _a lot_ to see…

_Mind out of the gutter, Decker._

She snaps herself away from her impure thoughts, as much as it pains her to do so, and returns to the task at hand. _Towels._ _Supplies_. Anything she can use. She spots a stack of clean towels, neatly folded on a rack by the shower door. Gathering them in an armful, she proceeds to rummage through his cupboards and cabinets.

One cupboard seems to contain an unusual amount of cleaning supplies. She knows that Lucifer is particular about that kind of thing, often bordering on compulsive, but she honestly always assumed that with the amount of money he has, he must hire some sort of cleaning service to take care of the penthouse for him. Apparently, that isn’t the case. Lucky for her though, because that means there’s clean cloths and a bucket, which she immediately takes to the sink and fills with warm water. For now, that’s all she needs.

She heads back into the bedroom, setting the bucket of water down beside the bed, and goes to retrieve the supplies from her bag. After placing the bottle of rubbing alcohol, the bandages, and the first aid kit on the bedside table, she perches back on the side of the bed, eyes fixed on her task.

Now that his shirt is gone, she can see the placement of the wound more clearly. It’s closer to his side than she initially thought, in fact, if it had been another inch or so to the right, it would have just been a graze. Unlucky for them that it isn’t.

Gently, she reaches out, just brushing her fingertips against his side, feeling the area around his injury to determine if it hit flesh or bone.

He hisses at the contact though, jerking away from her touch. Her eyes immediately snap up to look at him, already feeling apologetic for hurting him again. But she’d barely even touched him; how will she be able to do much more to help if she can’t even touch him? “Did that hurt?” she asks, trying to figure out exactly what she’d done, so that she can avoid doing it again.

“No,” he replies groggily, shifting himself to get comfortable as he settles back down.

So, _what_ then? He just doesn’t like her touching him? Have they really fallen so far?

“Your hands ‘re cold,” he mumbles, immediately sating her worry.

She’s just tired and stressed and overthinking every little detail. With all that’s going on, all that she’s found out about him, or _more accurately_ , all that she hasn’t found out, her mind just seems to want to jump to the conclusion that he doesn’t care about her anymore. That the reason he’s been so distant is because he just doesn’t want her like she wants him.

But that’s not true. It can’t be true. She can’t let it be. Even now, when there seems to be no light at the end of this increasingly dark tunnel, she has to believe there is. Even if she can’t see it yet.

_“Oh,”_ she says sheepishly, “sorry.” There’s not really much she can do about it, her hands don’t feel _that_ cold, and she’s just washed them in hot water. She rubs her hands together regardless, trying her best to warm them with friction before she touches him again.

When her skin meets his again, he doesn’t flinch this time. A part of her suspects that it’s because he was expecting it, not because her hands are any warmer though.

She explores the area around the wound, first finding the top of his hip and then the bottom of his ribs. The gunshot wound is slap bang in the middle, and if her guess is correct, that means the bullet hasn’t hit any bone at all. That should make things simpler… _she thinks._

Laying her hand on his hip, curling her fingers around the curve of his body, she looks for any sign of an exit wound. But with the way he’s lying, she can’t see anything.

She looks up to him. His eyes are trained on her, carefully watching her every movement. “Can you try turning on your side a bit?” Honestly, with his wings out she’s not sure how possible that is, but she needs to at least ask.

Without responding, he starts to shuffle himself, his wings twitching slightly as he does. He turns, not completely on his side, but just enough so that she has a clear view of the very blatant wound that mirrors the one on his front.

_The bullet went through_.

So, figuring out whether to take a bullet out of him or leave it in isn’t something she has to worry about. That’s good, she supposes. But it does mean that she now has _two_ holes that are bleeding and needing attention, rather than just one.

First things first though, she needs to clean him up, and get rid of the blood that is saturating his skin. She dunks one of the cloths she’d snatched from the bathroom into the bucket of warm water and wrings it out, before starting to gently wipe the area around the wound. She can see that he becomes increasingly tense as she gets closer to the centre, his muscles straining and body protesting the intervention.

“This might hurt,” she tells him before she wipes over the wound, trying to clear the edges of it.

_“Argh!”_ he cries out as she does, his wings twitching and legs spasming as the sudden jolt of pain courses through his body.

She continues though, apologising through gritted teeth as she tries her best to get it clean quickly and thoroughly. When she’s done, she sits back, tossing the now blood-soaked cloth into the bucket of water and wiping the sweat beading on her forehead away with the back of her hand.

Lucifer cranes his neck, looking over his shoulder at her. “S’that it?” he asks, sounding far too hopeful.

“I’m afraid not,” she replies, still unable to fend off the awful feeling that churns in her stomach. The feeling that keeps reminding her that _she’s_ causing him all this pain. She has to push it down though and chug onwards. Reaching over to grab the bottle of rubbing alcohol and another clean cloth, she unscrews the cap and douses the cloth with the solution. “This _is_ gonna hurt,” she tells him, cringing a little, because it is _really_ gonna sting.

“I can take it,” he replies, “I’ve had much worse.”

She knows that he’s trying to ease her conscience, but it doesn’t work. Instead it only draws her mind back to that scar…

She presses the damp, alcohol-soaked rag to his wound and squeezes her eyes closed as a blood curdling scream erupts from his lips.

His entire body tenses, his muscles straining and back arching as his fingers dig into the bed, grabbing fistfuls of sheets. His right wing flaps wildly, very almost whacking her right in the face, only missing because of her well-timed dodge. The gust of wind it causes sends the bandages flying from the bedside table, along with the poor doomed lamp as his wing swipes it to the floor once more.

She cleans both wounds quickly as best she can with her fingers shaking and him writhing in agony beneath her. When she’s done, she discards the rag, having no care for where it lands when she tosses it over her shoulder, and lunges closer to him, getting as close as she can without hurting him.

His eyes are squeezed closed, his jaw clenched shut, stifling the scream that is screeching in his throat, clawing to get out. She presses the palm of her hand to the side of his face, desperately trying to soothe him.

“ _It’s okay_ ,” she whispers a hushed reassurance, “ _you’re okay.”_

Their faces are mere inches apart, and, when the convulsions that wrack his body fade into tremors, his muscles sagging, he lets his head fall forward, resting it on her shoulder. She wraps her arm around him, her hand sinking into his sweat soaked hair, and holds him tightly against her. Her fingers stroke idle little patterns in it as she waits for the shaking to subside.

“W-was that…” he starts, his voice shaking just as much as his body, muffled against her shoulder, “ne-necessary?”

The wobble in his voice makes it sound like he’s about to cry, or maybe he already is. She can’t tell with his head buried in the crook of her neck, and she wouldn’t want to embarrass him by looking anyway. She knows how touchy he is about showing his softer side. “Sorry,” she whispers, resting her head against him, still pulling her fingers through his curls.

“S’okay,” he mumbles back, his shakes almost dying down now, save for the odd, random twitch here and there. “I forgive you.”

For some reason she gets the feeling that he means for more than just pouring alcohol into his wound.

She pulls away from him, her hand holding his head to stop him falling forward with her, and looks into his eyes. Those deep, dark depths that hold so much emotion. When she stares into them, she knows straight away exactly what he means. He forgives her for being the reason he’s hurt, for everything that’s happened to him because of her.

All the things that eat away at her, that keep her awake at night.

He _forgives her._

She swallows hard, trying to rid herself of the uncomfortable lump that’s suddenly lodged in her throat, making it feel too tight to breathe. “You do?” she asks quietly, barely even a whisper.

He lifts one hand to rest against the one she’s got pressed against his face, his fingers curling ever so slightly into her palm. A weak, sad little smile pulls at the corners of his lips, his eyes glistening in the low light as he gazes back at her. “Of course I do,” he says slowly, his voice rough and wrought with emotion. “Love,”— his hand squeezes hers a little— “I never want you to feel guilty because of me.”

_He knows_. He’s known this entire time.

Her lips part, but she can’t seem to find any words. She can’t promise not to feel bad about the effect she has on him. She just _can’t._ It’s not in her nature.

_“Please,”_ he continues, imploring— no, _begging her_. He swallows thickly, his breath catching as tears visibly swell in the corners of his eyes. “If you ended up—” he cuts himself off, inhaling sharply, like he can’t even bear to say the words, “— because of me.”

He stops, squeezing his eyes closed as though his words are physically paining him. “I couldn’t— I _can’t—”_

She pulls him back to hold him against her, unable to resist when he seemingly breaks down in front of her very eyes. He’s worried about her. About how her making him vulnerable makes her feel. But she still doesn’t fully understand.

If she ended up _what?_ Leaving him because of it? Not wanting to be around him? Is that what he thinks? Or is there something more to it that she’s not seeing? It seems to be that way with everything else at the moment.

It doesn’t seem like he’s going to or is even able to talk about it anymore now though. He just trembles gently against her, one hand sliding around her waist as she holds him.

“I won’t,” is all she can say in return. Whatever it is he’s so worried about, she won’t do it. Not if it’s something that makes him this upset just to think about.

He doesn’t give any response.

She just holds him there for a while, savouring the feel of him against her. It’s a feeling she’s missed so deeply. Just having him here, holding him, is like a balm for her aching heart. She knows she shouldn’t, that it’s selfish to remain by his side for any longer than is absolutely necessary, but she can’t help herself. And Lucifer doesn’t seem to have any complaints either.

That is until she eventually decides that she has to move him, to return to tending his wounds. He grumbles and groans, eyes half closed as she pulls away, settling him back against the headboard. A little, and frankly quite adorable whine forms in his throat in protest, his hand reaching out for her as she pulls away. He seems sleepy now though, his reactions not quite quick enough to stop her, and his exhaustion fogged brain unable to form a stronger argument.

She can’t help the fond little smile that tugs at her lips at his neediness, his _want_ for her to be close to him. It is there. She was wrong to think it had ever gone. To think that he ever didn’t want her. But she also knows that he’s not fully in control of himself right now, that these wants are uninhibited by whatever it is that has been stopping him from getting close to her all this time since his return.

She will find out what it is though, and they _will_ deal with it. _Together._

If today has proved anything to her, it’s that together they can accomplish almost anything.

Later though, when he’s not bleeding everywhere and has had a chance to rest properly.

Rising from the bed, she stretches out her back, attempting to ease the persistent ache that throbs in her muscles, and works her way around the room, collecting all her supplies from the floor. Once again, she picks the lamp up and sets it back on the bedside table. She’s surprised it even survived another fall, but it’s a good thing it did as dusk has fully settled, casting the penthouse into darkness, and she needs all the light she can get for her next job.

Sitting back down, she opens up the little emergency sewing kit. Lucifer’s eyes have closed but his short and shallow breaths seem to indicate that he’s not asleep just yet. It’s difficult to thread the nylon yarn in the low light, but after a couple of minutes of squinting as she tries to focus on the eye of the needle, and more than a few failed attempts, she succeeds.

She grabs another clean cloth and wets it, gently wiping the fresh blood that has oozed from the wound away. Tentatively, she holds the needle and thread in one hand, her gaze flickering between the half sleeping Lucifer and the gaping hole in his side. She has _no idea_ how she’s going to do this, but how badly can she mess up?

It can’t be _that_ hard, can it?

“Luce?” she says softly, not wanting to disturb him, but also not wanting to stick him with a needle without warning, mostly for fear of being KO’d by his wings.

“Hm?”

“This might hurt a little,” she tells him, trying to recall what the doctor tells you when you get an injection, to accurately try to prepare him this time. “You’ll probably feel a little prick.”

His eyes remain closed, but his lips pull into a sly little smile. It doesn’t take her long to figure out why.

He is _such_ a child.

As it happens, sewing him up isn’t really that difficult. She starts at one side and works methodically, knitting the flesh back together with a few stitches. It may not be a perfect job, and certainly isn’t pretty to look at, but it does the job well enough, almost completely stemming the bleeding. Lucifer doesn’t seem to respond much to the needle pulling through his flesh, so it’s completely no surprise to her when she’s finished that she looks up and sees that he’s sound asleep, snoring softly.

It’s for the best. He needs rest, and she needs to leave so his body can heal. She spends a few more minutes carefully packing his wound with sterile gauze and trying to wrap a bandage around his middle the best she can, without moving him or waking him up.

Luckily, he’s completely out for the count. Understandably so.

She stands for a moment, watching him as he slumbers peacefully, looking so innocent in the grasp of sleep. Her heart swells with love for him then, a longing aching deep inside her to crawl into bed next to him. But she has to resist, for him. No matter how difficult it is.

Before she goes, she retrieves the soft plush throw that usually resides on his couch, but has now been tossed into the corner of the living room, and takes it back to him. She shakes it out, checking to make sure no shards of glass are caught in the furry fabric, and places it over him, pulling it up to his chin.

His wings still lay, sprawled at either side of the bed. One looks so _broken._ She’s not sure if it will ever be able to mend properly. That thought sends a jab of pain through her heart. If he’s irreparably damaged because of _her—_

No. She has to remember what he asked of her. She can’t rid herself of her guilt completely, but she can at least not try to let it take over.

She wishes she could do something to help his wings, but she has no idea what she’s looking at. No idea where she would even start. But as bad as they look, the injuries don’t seem to pose any immediate danger to his life. The small cuts that mar the membranes have stopped bleeding themselves and the part where the bone is broken has ceased considerably.

He’ll be fine.

She just has to keep telling herself that.

Just in case though, she finds a pen and a piece of paper and writes a little note, leaving it on the bedside table along with his phone, which she’d fished out of his torn jacket.

_If you need anything, call me._

She doesn’t intend on straying too far.

And with that, she leaves him.

-

She doesn’t go far. The thought of Lucifer waking, needing help and her being too far away to get to him in time… it’s just too much to bear.

And even if she went home, there’s no way she could sleep. Sure, she could use a shower and change of clothes, but they can wait.

Tonight… tonight she just needs to be near him. As near as she can be without hurting him anymore. She knows the distance that she has to be away from him to become immortal again isn’t _that_ far. Her guess is somewhere in the range of 20 to 30 metres, but they’ve never actually tested it. Maybe they should. If they are still partners after all this is over, that is.

If he _wants_ to still be near her.

To continue putting himself at risk just to… _what._ Work together? Or is there still a chance that they can be something more? It feels like there is. After he told her that he forgives her. That… that had felt like a step towards something. An absolution almost. But perhaps she’s just thinking too much into it. He’s hurt. He probably wasn’t thinking clearly. Who knows if he would have said those things otherwise.

Regardless, if they are to at least continue working together after this, it would be handy to know a little bit more about his mortality issue. Specifically, how far _exactly_ she needs to be away from him to trigger it. For now, all she knows from her experiences is that the distance from the penthouse down to the ground where her car is parked is more than enough to allow him to heal.

So, she remains there, in her car, parked behind the back of Lux where she’d left it.

She quickly pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket and fires off a quick text to Dan informing him of where they might find their suspect— the guy who she’d left cuffed to a drain back in the warehouse— along with the words, “I’ll explain later.” Sure, it’ll raise questions with Dan, but she’s confident that he will keep it under wraps until she has a chance to explain herself. She’s not sure what she’s going to tell him exactly, but as long as they get their bad guy, Dan isn’t going to cause any trouble over her questionable behaviour. 

Tossing her phone to the side, she settles back in her seat. She doesn’t intend on even trying to sleep, partly because she worries that Lucifer will call and she’ll miss it, and partly because of all the disturbing new information that brews in her mind. The more she thinks about it, the more questions she has for him. But her body disagrees on this one and as she sits there, thinking about all that she has to ask, her eyelids droop and sleep claims her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe still struggles with the guilt she feels about making Lucifer vulnerable, and, when she goes to check on him once more, the mystery behind why he's been acting so strangely deepens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a tad shorter than the rest and isn't quite as exciting, but I'm hoping that the next chapter more than makes up for it ;) 
> 
> Also * **warning for depictions of blood and gore** *

_Heat._

_It’s the first thing she notices in this strange place. Flames licking her skin in the darkness. A sweltering inferno closing in around her._

_Suffocating her._

_She can’t seem to move, but from the abyss she hears screams. Horrible anguished cries that seem to echo, never ceasing. At first, she can’t define just one; they merge into a symphony of despair. A song of lost and tortured souls drifting through this place, incepting her mind with naught but anguish and pain._

_But as the darkness abates, and her senses become attuned, she hears it. One voice that stands out above all others. One cry that holds such pain that she can’t ignore it._

_His voice._

_And then he’s there. Crumpled into a pile on the floor, bloody and beaten, writhing in agony as he bleeds. His screams are harrowing, distressed cries that resonate within her, tearing her heart to shreds._

_She wants to do something to stop them, to ease his pain somehow, but still she finds herself stuck, frozen in place, only able to watch on from the side lines as he suffers._

_His back is to her, his face covered with his arms as he curls in upon himself, but she knows it’s him, deep within the depths of her soul. The once perfect, strong planes of his back are bloody, ravaged by what she can only describe as claw marks. Deep, jagged cuts tearing his flesh apart, leaking rivers of crimson._

_“Lucifer!” she tries so desperately to call out to him, but this place claims her voice, her words dissipating from the tip of her tongue, fading into nothing._

_Panic sets in as she watches, helpless. His fingers dig into his hair, knuckles white as his body spasms and his screams intensify further. Blood coats his fingers where his nails dig into his scalp with such pressure that he’s hurting himself._

_“LUCIFER!” she tries again, louder, more frantic this time, screaming his name until her voice is hoarse and her throat shrieks with pain._

_And finally, it works. He hears her. But there is no relief in this place. No happy ending. No respite from the horrors that surround them, sinking their talons into everything they touch._

_Because when he turns to look at her, she sees it. A blade lodged in his chest, a ravine-like trail cutting across the length of his side, very almost splitting him in two._

_First there is no recognition in his dark brown eyes, only pain. He’s looking at her, but it’s almost as if he sees through her. And then, as she calls his name again, something changes. His gaze pulls into focus and he sees her._

_A small, vulnerable whimper slips from his lips between his cries of pain. “Chloe.”_

_“Lucifer!” Her breathing is ragged, her chest tight as she struggles to find air through the ash that falls from the sky. “I’m here! I’m going to help, okay? Just hold on!”_

_His fingers fumble for the blade that resides within him, grasping at the handle._

_“How can you help?” he bites out, his pained expression suddenly morphing into one of anger._

_His fingers tighten around the handle of the blade._

_She needs to help him. He’s not going to make it if she doesn’t do something. Only she can’t move. The more she tries, the more she struggles to get to him, the more her limbs refuse._

_“Just stay there!” she cries out again, desperation leaching into her voice. “I can help!”_

_He grits his teeth as he holds the sword inside him, his muscles tensing._

_“You can’t help me,” he growls out._

_The panic inside her swells to a crescendo. She knows what’s going to happen before it even does, and yet she’s powerless to stop it._

_“You caused this,” he shouts at her as he pulls the sword free from his flesh, spilling a river of his own blood and guts across the floor._

_-_

She jerks awake suddenly to the sound of tapping.

Her neck aches and a cold sweat makes her skin feel damp and sticky. An unidentifiable, too bright light stings her eyes, causing her to have to squeeze them shut against it.

“Detective Decker?” A voice penetrates the grogginess that clouds her still racing mind.

The images— those screams— still flash through her head, pieces of them shattering and fading away, until all she is left with is those words.

_“You caused this.”_

They make her feel sick to her stomach. Her heart thuds in her chest, adrenaline still coursing through her veins in the aftermath of the nightmare.

“Detective Decker?” The incessant tapping comes again.

It takes her a minute to orient herself. She’s in her car, outside of Lux. She must have fallen asleep.

Cracking her eyes open, bright, golden, daylight floods in. Her head pounds, and she groans, rubbing at her temples in an attempt to stave off the pain. She blinks a few times as she rouses, bringing the world around her into focus.

There’s someone standing by the car, peering into her window, their fingers tapping on the glass. _Patrick_ , she realises, the bartender from Lux. He was the one who woke her.

Sitting up causes all of her muscles to scream in protest. A deep ache seems to reside in her bones, seeping out into her flesh.

“Patrick?” she asks, rubbing her eyes and fumbling to find the button that rolls the window down.

He smiles at her, somewhat hesitantly. She can’t really blame him. The picture she’s painting probably isn’t a pretty one; dirty, bloody, and sleeping in her car outside of her partner’s nightclub. “Good morning, Detective Decker,” he says cheerily, regardless of what _this_ looks like. For some reason she gets the feeling that the man has probably seen far stranger than this, working for Lucifer all these years.

“Morning,” she grumbles, voice still thick with sleep.

It’s morning, she realises.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

She’s been asleep all night.

Desperately scrambling to fish her phone out of her pocket, leaving Patrick looking slightly confused, she clicks the screen on.

_8:56am._

She’s been asleep for almost ten hours. How is that even possible? She never sleeps that much. Ever.

Quickly navigating to her messages, she clicks Lucifer’s name. There are no new messages. That means one of two things. He’s fine and he didn’t need anything, or he’s not fine and he wasn’t able to send her a message for help.

She should have checked on him. What if he’s not healing? What if he has other internal injuries that she didn’t even think about because she was too tired? She’s not an expert about any of this, not in any sense of the word. Not about emergency medical aid, nor his celestial healing abilities.

What if she’d made a mistake leaving him all alone up there for so long? What if he—

She abruptly cuts that line of thought off, feeling herself on the verge of panic. Quickly shoving her phone back into her pocket, she pushes her door open, causing poor Patrick to stumble backwards in her haste.

“Sorry!” she cries out apologetically as she jumps from the car, slamming the door behind her.

Patrick looks at her in shock as he regains his balance. She feels a bit bad about it, but she needs to check that Lucifer is okay right now.

“Detective Decker!” Patrick cries after her, as she runs towards the elevator. “I need you to move your car! We have a delivery—”

Halting, she spins on her heel and digs in her pocket for her keys before throwing them at him. “Sorry!” she shouts again when he has to leap forward to catch them. “I’m sorry, Patrick!” she calls out as she gets into the elevator, leaving the man looking bewildered in her wake.

-

She fidgets the entire way up to the penthouse, unable to quell her rising anxiety as the lift passes each floor and she becomes that much closer to her answer. The trip feels like it takes far longer than it had previously, but it’s probably just her imagination.

Finally, the elevator delivers her to the penthouse floor, and she wastes no time in getting to him. Slipping through the doors before they are even fully open, she dashes through the kitchen, almost stumbling over a fallen barstool, and takes the stairs up to the living room two at a time. Her thighs ache, the muscles pulling painfully with each lunge, but she ignores it.

She just _has_ to make sure he’s okay.

Nothing has changed in the living room, not that she can tell anyway. It’s still completely trashed, just as it had been last night, though now, in the daylight, the full extent of the damage is clear to see. Holes in the walls, cracks branching out across the Italian marble floor; all the things that had been hidden in the darkness.

Lucifer must have been really upset to do all this…

Right at this very moment though, it doesn’t matter why he did it. All that matters is making sure he’s still with them.

Trying her best to avoid stepping on the glass that decorates the floor, she hops up the few steps to his bedroom and sees him.

Exactly where she’d left him.

He doesn’t look like he’s even moved an inch. His wings are still splayed out, spilling over either side of the bed, one twitching every now and then whilst he sleeps, and the other… the other looks broken, bent and twisted beyond repair, lying lifelessly still compared to its counterpart.

As she tiptoes closer to the bed, trying to keep as quiet as possible, she sees the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he snores softly. The bandages that are rather shoddily wrapped around his bare torso (she really must have been exhausted) have a spot of red on them where blood has soaked through, but apart from that, he seems fine.

She’d worried for nothing. He’s immortal— _the Devil._ Of course, he’s fine. How could he not be?

Well… _‘fine_ ’ is a relative term. His wing is still broken, and his skin remains marked with smaller cuts and bruises that don’t seem to be fully healed. And, in the full light of day, she can see how dirty he is. There’s blood and muck smeared on his face and arms. His hair is an unruly mess. The pants that he’s still wearing are torn and caked with his dried blood.

But at least he’s still here, and he doesn’t seem to be bleeding to death any longer. That’s what matters, isn’t it?

Maybe she should try to clean him up a bit though. But the thought of disturbing him when he looks so peaceful… perhaps she could just come back later. Leave him to rest and heal a bit longer.

But she can’t leave him like this, can she? Surely cleaning him up just a little bit won’t do any harm... maybe change those bandages too, check how he’s healing.

She takes another step around the bed, intent on doing just that, when her gaze catches the scar that cuts across his side. Images from her nightmare flash through her mind’s eye, of watching him bleed to death and seeing that look in his eyes. Hearing those words…

_“You caused this.”_

She caused this. He’s hurt because of her. She may think that trying to help him further is her trying to do what’s right, but deep down she knows it’s selfish. Yes, she cares about him and wants to look after him, but she also knows that being here is just _hurting_ him even more.

For a long moment she just stands there, fighting herself on it. Trying to figure out if she should stay or go. Finally, she settles on an answer. She needs to think about what’s best for him, and the best thing for him is for her to leave. As much as that pains her, it’s the right thing to do.

She allows her eyes to linger on him for a second longer, then turns to go.

A rough, groggy grumble comes from behind her. “Leavin’ so soon?”

She spins on her heel to face him. His eyes are open a fraction; his brow furrowed as he tries to train his gaze on her.

“Lucifer,” she breathes shakily, momentarily caught off guard, before she composes herself. “I thought you were asleep.”

His lips twitch into the ghost of a smile. “Thought you were stayin’ away?” he counters, a playful glint shining in his eyes.

Somehow, now that he’s awake and actually _looking_ at her, the few feet of space between them just feels like far too much. She’s overcome with the urge to run over there and bundle him up in her arms, to run her fingers through his hair, and just hold him.

“I did,” she tells him, shuffling on the spot somewhat awkwardly, not quite able to figure out what to do with her arms. “I just came to check on you.” She chews on her lip before adding, “I stayed away all night,” maybe a _tad_ too defensively.

“Ah,” he replies, shifting himself a bit to sit up a little straighter. For some reason, as his eyes remain fixed on her, she gets the feeling that he’s thinking about something. “You’re wearin’ the same clothes,” he adds after a beat.

Of course he would notice that. Ever the detective, when it suits him.

“Yeah, I um….” She folds her arms across her chest, suddenly feeling quite ridiculous about the whole thing. Is he really going to push her to admit that she slept in her car?

He still stares at her, raising an eyebrow in anticipation of her next words.

_Of course he is._

“I stayed in my car,” she admits sheepishly, her gaze falling to the floor as she finds herself unable to look directly at him. “I was… worried about you.” She swallows hard, tears prickling her eyes as all her feelings from the following day swell inside her once more. “I was worried about what might happen if I wasn’t close by to help you.” Her teeth pull at the inside of her lip, the wobble in her voice growing stronger with each word. “And I was afraid of losing you again and not having a chance to—"

“Chloe,” he cuts her off with one tender little word. _Her name_. For some reason hearing it from his lips always makes her heart flutter.

When she looks up, his dark eyes are shining, and his expression is softer than before.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s clear that their conversation has shifted, taking on a deeper meaning than him just dying. And she knows his words are well-intentioned, that he would never knowingly lie to her, but how can she believe that he’ll never leave again? How does she know that Hell won’t require its king once more, if he won’t even tell her how he left it in the first place? “Lucifer…” she starts with a sigh, so desperately wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt as he gazes at her with those soulful brown eyes.

Taking a step towards the bed, she’s about to continue, to finally tell the man that she loves that she can’t move forward if there’s still uncertainty there, and then, with two simple words, he makes that very same uncertainty disappear.

“I promise.”

He _promises_. And she believes him. From his lips, a promise is a very serious thing indeed, not something to be taken lightly.

His word is his _bond_.

But she still _needs_ to know why.

She obviously must not look convinced, because sorrow seems to dawn his features. A moment lingers between them, stretching out for what seems like forever. Something swirls in his eyes. Desperation, maybe. Fear, most definitely.

“Please,” he says, almost a whisper, begging— _pleading_ with her to just hear him out. “Please believe me.”

“I do,” she replies quickly. As quickly as she can because she does believe him, and she never wants him to think that she doesn’t trust his word. Then, more hesitantly, she starts, “I just… I just need more than that, if we’re ever going to…” she chews on the words for a second, trying to figure out exactly how to phrase it, “ _be more_ , Lucifer.”

She hesitates for a moment, sighing as she tries to decide whether it’s the best time to talk about this. Last night he had been too out of it, now he seems perfectly compos mentis, but he’s clearly still hurting. Is it fair to put this on him as well? Especially when she’s going to have to leave him again shortly.

But when she looks at him, carefully watching her as she stands in the archway to his bedroom, she doesn’t see the Devil, despite his wings. She sees the man she loves looking so very lost. So desperately does she want to guide him towards the light.

“Lucifer,” she starts softly, slowly taking a step towards the bed, “since you came back you’ve just been so distant, and I just… I don’t know what to do about that. And then I see this,”— she waves her hand, gesturing to the destruction that has befallen the apartment— “and I see… _that_ ,”— her eyes fall to the scar that marks his side— “and _those_ ,”— his wings— “and I know there’s something going on with you. I’ve tried to give you space because you seem to need it, but if you never open up to me, I just don’t know what I can do for you. All I know is that I can’t live wondering.”

“I know,” he says, his voice filled with sorrow. For a moment she thinks that’s all he’s going to say. Her heart aches as she thinks that this could be it. And then, like a miracle, he continues, “I will tell you about what happened, just…” he hesitates, swallowing hard, his features filled with sadness and a hint of something darker, “not now.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, pulling his fingers through his hair, somehow making it even messier than it had been before. “Please,” he utters again, pleading with her, “I’m just not ready.”

“Okay,” she replies softly, nodding as she worries her lip between her teeth and wraps her arms around herself. “That’s okay.”

The whole thing still leaves her with a distinctly unsettled feeling brewing within. Emotionally, he’s been distant since he returned, but he still remained by her side. He’s had so many chances to talk to her about what happened, and she’d thought that if she gave him time, he would open up willingly. Only he didn’t. Maybe she’d been naive for believing that they were long past the days of keeping things from one another.

And now, only when he thinks he’s going to lose her, does he finally decide to open up.

What does he think is so bad that he would go so far to avoid telling her?

What can be worse than all the things she’s already seen?

Her mind can only rebel, pushing away the dark thoughts that pop up in response to that particular question.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his gaze finally falling from hers. He shuffles slightly, his hand moving to hold his bandaged side.

She still stands there, a few steps away from his wing. “Whenever you’re ready, you just need to let me know.” She lingers for a few moments longer, watching as he tries to look under his bandages without removing them completely, grimacing when his fingers probe a little too hard. “Anyway, I should get going.” Turning away from him, she barely makes it a foot before an anguished cry comes from behind her.

She spins on the spot to see him pulling himself up, pushing back the plush blanket and leaning over, clearly trying to get out of bed. His hand clutches at his middle as a pained expression dances over his features.

“Lucifer!” She quickly moves to his side, attempting to usher him back into bed. “You need to rest!”

He squirms, clearly disagreeing with her on the rest part, but quickly acquiesces to her command when she places her hand against his bare chest, gently pushing him backwards to lean against the headboard once more.

“But I need…” he starts, before trailing off, eyes wide as she leans over him so close that she can feel the heat resonating from his bare skin.

“You need to stay in bed,” she tells him in her best ‘mom’ voice. “If you need something you can tell me, and I’ll get it for you.”

She waits, but he offers no response. For what reason though, she can’t tell.

“Just tell me what you need,” she reiterates, standing up from where she’d perched on the edge of the bed. He opens his mouth, suddenly looking unsure of himself, before closing it again. “Something to eat?” she guesses, shaking her head. “A drink?”

Only he still doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, staring up at her with those ridiculous doe eyes, for some reason looking slightly embarrassed. “Just spit it out Lucifer,” she tries again, struggling not to become irritated with him. “Tell me what you wanted.”

He rolls his jaw, thinking about something as he fidgets with the ring on his finger. “It doesn’t matter,” he says finally.

Chloe rolls her eyes. “Look,” she says, crossing her arms, “just tell me what it is. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me, because I know the moment I leave you’re going to be up and out of this bed getting whatever it is, when you should be resting.”

And once again, he remains silent.

“Just let me do this, Lucifer. Please?” She can’t be sure why he’s being so awkward. Maybe he feels guilty about asking something of her. Or maybe he’s just never had anyone to take care of him when he’s been injured before. That thought makes her heart squeeze painfully in her chest.

He looks hesitant, but then, after a long, tense moment, he says, “I assure you, I’m quite capable of doing it myself.

“I know you are,” she replies softly, “but you don’t have to.”

An odd expression settles in his features. “I rather think that this is something I’m better off doing—”

“You’re _better off_ resting and letting me do whatever you need.” Trying so desperately not to lose her patience with him, she adds, “Just tell me what it is!” maybe a little too sharply.

He clears his throat, and then, looking rather sheepish, he says quietly, “I need the loo.”

Oh.

She abruptly averts her gaze from him, choosing instead to stare out of the floor-to-ceiling windows, fixing her eyes on the city beyond as she feels her cheeks flush with heat. Clearing her throat, she shifts awkwardly on the spot. It’s not like it’s anything to be embarrassed about, but somehow, despite telling herself that over and over, she is anyway. “Do you need help?” she asks before realising how that sounds and quickly, albeit nervously, amending, “Getting to the bathroom, I mean!”

Even without looking at Lucifer, she’s sure she can hear the hint of a smirk in his voice. “I believe I’m quite capable of managing on my own, thank you.”

Right. Of course he is.

Continuing to look-but-not-really-see out of the window, she shifts on the spot, wringing her hands together and feeling altogether mortified about the situation. Behind her, she hears the rustling of bed sheets as he moves, and the sound of his wings scraping against the floor. In the silence of the room, she can hear him huffing and puffing as he exerts himself. Is he still hurt that badly?

Her question is answered almost immediately when another pained cry comes from behind her. Spinning on the spot, she sees that he’s managed to get himself to the edge of the bed. And, despite his wing partially obstructing her view, she can see that he’s hunched over, holding his side.

“Lucifer!” she cries, practically running to kneel beside him. “Are you okay?”

His head hangs heavy, his hair flopping down over his forehead. He’s clearly in pain as he grits his teeth, causing the muscles in his jaw to flex. “It’s still a bit tender,” he says breathlessly, looking up just slightly to meet her eyes.

Shouldn’t it have healed better by now? When he’d been shot at Lux, he’d made it seem like being away from her for a few minutes had made a vast improvement….

She places her hand on his arm, gently pulling it away to get a better view of the bandages. “Should this still be that bad?” she asks, carefully peeling away the gauze. “I thought you healed quickly?”

An awful thought crosses her mind, and she looks up to him with wide eyes. “Was I not far enough away?”

“I do,” he replies with a huff. A few beads of sweat collect on his forehead. “And you were.”

So… shouldn’t he be better than this by now?

Pulling away the dirty bandages, she gets a good look at the wound beneath. It looks like it has bled through the stitches a little; dried blood encrusts the injury and the skin surrounding it, along with some fresh blood. As far as she can tell, it doesn’t look too bad though, considering it’s only barely 12 hours old. It looks like his body is already well on its way to healing. The flesh at the gunshot site is still an angry red, but some evidence can be seen of new tissue forming, trying to patch the gap.

It’s fascinating really. His body has healed in half a day what a human would take weeks to achieve.

She looks up to him, deciding to leave the bandage off for a little while, to give it some time to breathe.

“I do heal faster than humans,” he continues after a minute, eyes meeting hers once again, “but it still takes time. I can’t just _miraculously_ heal myself.” He shrugs a little, quirking his eyebrows. “As _convenient_ as that would be.”

“Oh, right.” She stands, stepping away to deposit the old bandages on the bedside table. “And how do I affect your healing?”

He scrubs a hand over his still very tired looking face and hums. “It’s not an exact science,”— he tilts his head to the side, his gaze turning curious as it skitters over her— “I have reason to believe that I still heal faster than a human would, but not as fast as when you aren’t around.”

So, he’s still healing, but it’s obvious he’s still hurting a fair amount too. She should definitely leave as soon as possible.

After a few minutes sat on the edge of the bed, catching his breath, he continues to try and get up. His wings twitch as he tries to pull himself into a standing position, but he struggles, clutching at his side, remaining awkwardly hunched over. A strained whine resonates in his throat as he attempts to move.

Clearly, he isn’t all that capable just yet.

“Here,” she says, rushing to his side and wrapping her arms around him, helping him to his feet. “Let me help.”

He accepts the help without argument, much to her surprise.

Once he’s standing, she drapes his arm over her shoulder and positions herself at his side, gently guiding him to the bathroom with his wings trailing behind them.

“I think I can manage from here,” he tells her when they get to the bathroom door, planting one hand against the Assyrian wall for support. “Thank you.”

“That’s okay,” she replies with a soft little smile as she watches him disappear into the bathroom, her eyes lingering on his wings.

She needs to talk to him about those before she goes. He may heal quickly, but she’s sure one of them is broken. Will it heal wrong if they don’t set it properly?

While he’s in the bathroom, she makes herself busy, walking through the penthouse and making her way down the stairs to the kitchen. She retrieves a cup from one of the cupboards and takes it to the sink, filling it with cold water. Then she continues to rummage around, searching for any signs of sustenance, but comes up empty. The cupboards and the oversized fridge freezer are both completely void of any food. If it weren’t for the rather sizeable bag of weed she found in one of the drawers, she’d say no one has lived here in months.

Only he has been living here, as far as she’s aware.

Taking the glass of water back upstairs to the bedroom, she finds it still empty. She waits for a moment or two before knocking on the bathroom door, finding herself a little bit worried that he’s taking so long.

“Lucifer?” she calls out. “You okay in there?”

There’s silence for a moment, followed by the sound of running water.

Knocking again, she waits, listening intently for some sign that he’s heard her, but nothing comes, only the persistent gushing of water spilling from the faucet. “Lucifer?” she tries again, waiting a beat before adding, “I’m coming in, okay?”

Still no reply.

Slowly she turns the doorknob, carefully pushing the door open and hoping to hell that he isn’t naked. Not that it’s anything she hasn’t seen before, probably far too many times considering the fact that they’ve never _actually_ slept together. At this point though, right now, her walking in on him naked would only add to the growing pile of things that she has to be embarrassed about.

When she opens the door fully and tentatively steps inside the bathroom, he’s thankfully not naked. He’s standing at the sink, both hands firmly planted on the porcelain, knuckles white as if he’s holding his weight, and he just… _stares_ blankly at his reflection in the small mirror.

“Lucifer?” she says again softly, lingering close to the doorway in case he wants her to leave.

But once again, he doesn’t reply. In fact, it doesn’t even look like he’s noticed her enter. He just continues to _stare_ at himself, something haunted in those dark eyes of his.

Hesitantly, she takes a few steps towards him, being careful to avoid stepping on the end of his broken wing where it flops on the floor.

Still, he doesn’t seem to even register her presence. When she’s standing close enough, she reaches out, gently touching his bare arm. “Lucifer?”

He jumps at the contact, spinning to look at her with wild eyes, one hand suddenly pulled up and into a fist, ready to attack, the other grabbing her wrist so tightly that she can’t pull away. For a moment, he just stares at her, frozen in place, muscles tense and breathing ragged.

She daren’t move. She knows he would never hurt her, but her heart still pounds hard against her sternum as his fearful gaze remains fixed on her. And then, his grip on her wrist loosens, his fingers slowly pulling away as his gaze morphs from one of fear to one of recognition. He looks to her and then at the fist he still holds in the air, and quickly drops it.

“Chloe,” he breathes shakily, his voice a little hoarse, “I—” He swallows hard, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Sorry,” he says, his eyes falling to her wrist that she now holds against herself. “I didn’t mean to—”

His lips remain parted, but words seem to fail him as distress settles in his features and he shakes his head, turning away from her back to the sink.

She still holds her wrist in her hand. It hadn’t hurt that much, but the shock of it still leaves her feeling a bit dazed. Her heart continues to beat like a mad thing in her chest, sending pulses of adrenaline through her body, and her mind still screams danger, despite knowing deep in her soul that he doesn’t pose any threat to her. Clearly, he’s just… hurting, struggling with something, and he needs her support.

“Are you okay?” she asks, knowing full well that he isn’t.

He rests his forearms on the sink now, hunched over, his hands slowly clenching into fists before relaxing and repeating the motion. “I’m fine,” he replies gruffly, his voice drowned out by the sound of the still running tap.

She steps forward slowly, turning the tap to close the faucet. No sense in wasting water.

Pursing her lips, she steps back from him a little, trying to decide whether it’s a good idea to push him on this right now. He’s fallen silent, staring down at his hands as if they are the most interesting things in the world. “Are you _really_ okay?” she finally decides to ask again, figuring that she should give him a chance to open up. “You don’t seem fine to me.”

He doesn’t reply, simply squeezing his eyes closed. Maybe she should give up. Leave him to figure it out on his own. But that’s not what partners are supposed to do.

“Look,” she says with more confidence, “I can see that you’re in pain, Lucifer, and I—”

“— Of course I’m in pain,” he interrupts, without tearing his gaze away from his hands. “There’s a _bloody hole_ in my stomach.”

She pauses for a second, easily recognising his attempt to steer the conversation away from the topic at hand. “I don’t mean that kind of pain, Lucifer.”

It’s then that he chooses to look up at her, something all too vulnerable stirring within him.

“I don’t know what happened to you, but I can see that you’re _hurting_ from it, and I just… I need you to know that you can _talk_ to me. That I’m always going to be here for you.”

His face softens and something infinitely gentle settles there. “Thank you,” he replies quietly, a slight wobble in his voice. “I just—” He breaks off, some distressed little noise forming in his throat as he rubs a hand over his face. “I just need to get clean.”

That really wasn’t what she thought he was going to say.

He pulls himself to stand up, looking down at himself and grimacing. “I feel _bloody awful_.”

She blinks, finding herself momentarily stunned at the whiplash-inducing topic change. He _is_ filthy, and so is she, but he really hadn’t seemed all that bothered about it before. Now though… after he’d looked in the mirror, it really seems to be distressing him. For what reason, she really can’t fathom.

“Want me to run you a bath?” she offers.

The shower seems like it’ll probably be too much for him, and she’s not sure his wings would fit in anyway. A bath seems like a good idea though. Clean him up, get him into some fresh clothes, and back into bed before she leaves again. It would certainly help put her mind at ease as well.

He looks hesitantly between her and the tub. She notices the hand that clutches his side flexes a little bit.

“I can help you get in and out,” she adds, wondering if that’s what he’s worried about. “If you want me to, that is. It’s no trouble.”

Now that would mean seeing him naked, but if it’s for a good reason she really can’t argue with it, can she?

“That… that does sound good,” he finally answers, and if she didn’t know any better, she would say his cheeks flush ever so slightly.

Even the Devil gets embarrassed, though he would _never_ admit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bare with me, we _are_ getting to answers soon, I promise. I may post chapter 5 a little early this weekend if I can because I'm just way too excited about it haha :D _Feelings are coming..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer gets some well deserved care, and the mystery of why his devil wings are back starts to unfold.

Twenty minutes later she’s drawn a steaming hot bath. Her raid of the cupboards had granted her with a bounty of lavender bath salts, aromatherapy oils, and bubble bath. Somehow, she finds it hard to picture Lucifer drawing himself a bath like this, but then again, he’s never claimed to be anything other than overindulgent. And to her, a nice, long, hot bath with all the trimmings, a glass of wine, and maybe a few candles, is the peak of indulgence. Unfortunately, being a single mom with a full-time job, indulgences such as those are few and far between.

She kneels by the side of the tub, one arm dangling over the side, revelling in the feel of the heat on her skin as her hand dips below the surface of the water. The lavender scent lingers in the air, encompassing her, and making her feel sleepier with every inhale.

 _God,_ she could kill to just strip off and jump in this bath right now, to wash away all the grime that has collected on her skin. To cleanse herself of yesterday’s events and just _forget_ for a moment.

But Lucifer is her first priority. She can relax once she’s seen to him, made sure he’s got everything he needs, and is back in bed, _resting._ Clearly, he needs it. Despite all her assumptions about his speedy healing, it obviously isn’t as instantaneous as he’d made it out to be in the past. Well… he hadn’t made it out that way exactly, she just never asked, like she never asked so many things.

After he’d been shot in Lux that time, she hadn’t really seen him afterwards. He had _Eve_ , after all. Chloe had felt like she’d be nothing but a hindrance to him, but now… she feels terrible about it. She’d barely even checked in on him, sending a couple of texts and not daring to do anything more. It wasn’t like they were on the best of terms at the time, but she should at least have made sure he was okay.

That’s in the past now though. At the moment she has bigger fish to fry.

Rising from her position beside the tub, she pulls a fluffy towel off the heated rack and dries her hands, heading for the bedroom. She’d told Lucifer to lie down whilst she sorted everything out, and it appears as though he’s fallen asleep once more, his eyes closed and face peaceful as he slumbers.

She watches him for a moment, a fond little smile playing on her lips. He looks so young in his sleep. It’s such a contrast to how she’s seen him today, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

Shaking the thought, she rounds the bed, not yet waking him, but instead going through to his unreasonably grand walk-in wardrobe. She’s seen it before, but it never ceases to amaze her regardless. It’s bigger than her bedroom, for a start. And she’s also relieved to see that the room looks to be untouched by the destruction that has befallen the rest of the apartment; his lines of suits, shirts and trousers still hung impeccably, and in order of colour.

She goes straight to a set of drawers situated between the shirts and the trousers that she knows contains socks, underwear and pyjamas. Yes, she _had_ looked through his drawers that time they’d had an impromptu birthday party for her here. As it had turned out, his sock drawer wasn’t all that interesting.

Grabbing a pair of silky black boxer briefs and a robe to match, she returns to the bedroom.

“Lucifer,” she says softly, feeling a bit bad about disturbing him. Perching on the bed beside him, she gently brushes her fingers over his stubbled cheek. “Your bath is ready.”

His eyes crack open and he blinks groggily a few times, before hazily fixing on her. “Oh,” he replies gruffly, already trying to pull himself into a seated position.

She helps him up once again as he struggles, and offers him her support through to the bathroom which, surprisingly, he takes, leaning one arm over her. He halts in the doorway when his eyes fall on the scene in front of them.

Steam rises lazily from the water, filling the room with a mist that settles on all the surfaces, fogging them with condensation. The aroma of lavender hits her in the face like a ton of bricks. Maybe she’d been a touch heavy handed with the bath salts.

Lucifer just stares, almost as if he’s stunned by it.

“Thank you,” he says, barely a whisper, not tearing his gaze away from the bath.

She frowns a little, wondering why there’s a hint of surprise in his voice, like he hadn’t actually expected her to do this for him. “That’s okay.”

“No, really,” he says suddenly, turning to her, eyes wide and something… _sad_ lurking in those dark depths. “I don’t d—” But whatever he was going to say is lost, dying on his lips as he stands there staring at her with such adoration in his eyes, like she’s given him the moon.

She waits a moment, seeing that there are thoughts stirring in his mind, wondering if he will open up this time as his mouth opens and closes again. But he doesn’t. She shouldn’t really expect anything else from him; trying to get him to talk about his feelings is like trying to get blood out of a stone at the best of times. She really doesn’t know how Linda has dealt with him all these years.

“Alright, come on,”— she tugs on his arm a little, ushering him forwards— “let’s get you in before it gets too cold.”

He halts once more at that and she can almost feel his eyes on her. “You don’t have to help,” he says, somewhat sheepishly, tilting his head to one side, looking almost embarrassed about the idea. “I’m sure I can manage.”

She frowns. He’s never been shy before. No, _‘shy’_ is the last word she would use to describe him, in fact. “Are you still in pain?” she asks, gaze flickering to the hand that holds his side and the wing that seems to be a permanent fixture of the floor now.

A contemplative look skitters over his features.

“And if you say ‘ _I’m fine’_ or _‘It’s nothing for you to worry about, Detective’_ ,” she says, maybe jabbing a little too hard as she mocks his accent, “I swear to _your Dad_ , once you’re healed, I will kick your ass.”

He looks briefly taken aback by her outburst, his lips parting ever so slightly, the space between his brows creasing. “I….” He swallows hard before clearing his throat. “Yes,” he says finally, “I suppose it does still hurt a fair bit.”

Like blood out of a stone.

“Right, then,” she says sternly, taking his arm once more, “let me help you, Lucifer.” Pausing for a moment, she adds, “Unless you want me to leave?”

They’ve already established that he still wouldn’t be healed if she left, but maybe she is causing him more pain than she realises, and he just doesn’t know how to ask her to leave.

“No! Stay!” he says suddenly, with more vigour than she would have expected. “I mean,” he continues meekly, “if you want to, that is. I just—”

“What?” she cuts him off, a smirk tugging at her lips as she watches him getting all flustered. It is a rare sight indeed. Something that happens once in a blue moon, if that. Better make the most of it while it lasts. “Suddenly gone shy? Didn’t know the Devil had _stage fright_ ,” she draws out, purposefully running her eyes up and down him.

His face drops, an affronted expression dawning his features.

As hard as she tries, she can’t suppress her smile.

He scoffs, clicking his tongue. “I _do not.”_

He looks offended, but she knows he’s actually enjoying this, that playful little sparkle shining in his eyes as he looks at her giving him away.

“Right,”— she waves one hand, gesturing vaguely to his half-clothed form— “lose the pants then,” she laughs.

His previously irritated expression seems to melt away, slipping smoothly into a sultry, mischievous smile as he waggles his eyebrows at her. “Yes, ma’am.” He even mock salutes and everything.

Something about the exchange just feels so… comfortable. Like the old them is back. She knows that they still have an untold amount of issues to talk about before they can get back there fully. For now though, the reminder is all too welcome.

And the sight of him unbuckling his belt and dropping his trousers to the floor, revealing what he’d once called his ‘spectacular assets’ isn’t _exactly_ unwelcome either.

Chloe feels her cheeks suddenly ablaze with fire as her gaze lingers on _him_ for just a moment too long, before managing to avert it. Clearing her throat, she purses her lips, trying to ignore the sudden heat that stirs within her. The, _uh… feelings_ that are kicked up from seeing him in all his glory are _overwhelming_ , to say the least.

Suddenly she’s overcome with desire, reminded of all the lustful thoughts she’s had for him since that night. All the steamy dreams that she’d wished were real.

And then came the disappointment— the _heartbreak_ when he returned and didn’t seem to want her, not in _that_ way, at least. And she’d respected his wishes, but she can’t help the way she feels about him. Especially with the confusion that clouds her mind as to where they _actually_ stand with each other. Because now… she’s not sure what he wants.

But she knows what she wants.

She wants to touch him, to run her fingers over his perfect skin, to kiss him as she tangles her fingers in his hair. To while away the hours with him, no barriers, no _clothes_ , just _them_.

She wants to _love_ him.

Because she _does_ love him, even if he doesn’t love her back.

“Come on,” she says suddenly, snapping herself out of her thoughts before she falls back into that dark place that she’d gone to when he left her.

The smirk on his face slowly fades as she returns to herself, her cheerful mood gone in one fleeting moment. He’s obviously noticed something has changed. She doesn’t pay too much mind though, simply returning to focusing on her task of helping him into the bath.

They work in relative silence to get him in. She holds his hand as he steps over the side, his long fingers wrapping around hers, leaning on her for support as he lands one foot in the water and then the other. He halts, waiting for her to adjust his wing, and to move the broken one so that it lays on the floor behind him, allowing him to sit down without catching it on anything.

He slips into the water with a contented sigh, his eyes fluttering closed as he sinks as far down as his wings will allow him to go. Unfortunately, that isn’t too far. The base of his wings protrude from his shoulder blades, leaving him unable to get his head under the water. They’ll definitely pose a problem if he wants to wash his hair, which is probably a good idea, what with the dried blood that she knows is in there as a result of him running his dirty fingers through it.

It just means she’ll have to stay and help. Which she doesn’t mind. Thankfully, the copious amount of bubbles that she’d used makes him decent enough, allowing her to put all previous inappropriate thoughts to the back of her mind. _For now_. So that’s not a problem.

She grabs a glass from the counter by the sink and a bottle of raspberry shampoo, before settling herself by the side of the tub, kneeling on a folded towel to cushion her knees on the hard marble floor.

His eyes are closed, his head lolling backwards a bit as all the tension seems to seep from his posture. He doesn’t pay any attention when she leans over the side of the tub and scoops up some water in the glass. It’s only when she touches his still dry shoulder with her wet hand that his eyes snap open.

He looks at her for a long moment, confusion creasing his face as an unasked question sits on his slightly parted lips.

“Lean forward a bit please,” she asks quietly, unable to curb her fond smile at his adorably bewildered little face.

His mouth opens and he tilts his head to one side, scrutinizing her. “What are you…?” he trails off, clearly not understanding what she’s doing.

“Lean forward,”— she holds the quickly clouding glass of steamy water up for him— “so I can wash your hair.”

The confusion in his feature increases tenfold at her supposed clarification. “I believe I’m quite capable of doing that myself, thank you.”

She leans back on her haunches, raising an eyebrow at him. “Are you?”

“Why yes, I—” He breaks off as he tries and fails to lower himself any further into the water, his wings catching on the side of the bath. “ _Oh.”_ His eyes widen as he quickly throws an annoyed glance over his shoulder. “Well that is bloody inconvenient.”

He huffs and settles back down, still looking a bit annoyed with himself.

“See?” she replies, unable to wipe the soft smile from her face. “Please, Lucifer,”— she reaches out, gently squeezing his shoulder once more— “just relax and let me help you.”

The irritation in his features melts away, quickly replaced by something softer. “Alright,” he says, a quiet, vulnerable little word.

After that, he obliges her, leaning forward slightly and allowing himself to be moved as he responds to the gentle press of her fingers against his skin without complaint. She touches his chin, tilting his head back as she slowly pours water over his head, repeating until she’s soaked his jet-black hair.

Placing the empty glass on the floor beside her, she opens the shampoo bottle and squirts a healthy amount into the palm of her hand. The zingy smell of raspberry tickles her nose, and she briefly finds herself smiling at the fact that out of all the products he could have, he’s chosen this one. Pink and fruity. Such a contrast to the picture he paints of himself every day. Another reminder that, deep down, the Devil is a softie.

She plops the blob of shampoo onto the top of his head and gets to work kneading it in, covering his hair thoroughly. Her fingers gently scratch over his scalp as she applies light pressure, massaging his head in soothing motions. To her surprise, the motion elicits a content little humming noise from his throat as he relaxes, leaning back once more and allowing his eyelids to droop.

It’s strange, the pleasure she gets out of doing something so simple. Of just telling him she cares about him with actions, not words, and seeing him accept it. It feels like a step, albeit a very small one, towards something bigger. Something _better_.

“Lean forward,” she tells him again, deciding that, as much as she would love to keep going (and she’s sure he would let her) his hair is clean, and she should move on.

His eyes open slowly, staying on her as he leans forward.

She rinses the shampoo out using the glass once again and runs her fingers through his locks, freeing some strays from where they stick to his forehead. Satisfied with her work, she gives him a smile and replaces the glass on the floor, reaching instead for some soap and a cloth from the rack beside the bath.

“I’m done with your hair, you can relax now,” she says, when she sees he’s still leaning forward, eyes fixed on her. “Give me your hand though.”

He blinks back at her. “My hand?”

Her fond smile widens. “Yeah,”— she laughs a little bit— “the thing at the end of your arm with fingers on it.”

She makes a grabby motion with her own hand, gesturing for him to give her his. He does, slowly, still blinking at her as though he’s not quite sure what to make of the request.

Water droplets run down his hand as he frees it from the depths below, steam rising from his skin as the thin coating that clings to him evaporates. There’s still blood on his hands. Most of it has smeared or come free on its own in the water, but his nails are still encrusted.

Taking his hand gently in her own, she lathers soap over his skin and takes her cloth, softly rubbing away the smudges of red that mar him. Then she uses a small brush that she’d found hanging on the corner of the towel rack and takes each finger, scrubbing his nails clean one by one.

His eyes remain fixed on her the entire time, despite her telling him to relax.

“Yes?” She looks up to him, eyebrows creeping towards her hairline.

“I didn’t say anything,” he replies, for some reason looking rather forlorn.

She hums, returning her attention to her task. “ _But_ ,” she draws out the word, “you are staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.” She pauses a moment, waiting for a response and quickly coming to the conclusion that she probably isn’t going to get one. “So, what’s on your mind? Because something clearly is.”

He sighs, the water sloshing as he pulls himself a little straighter. “I’m just…” he starts but trails off before trying again. “Why are you doing this?”

She frowns at the question, but doesn’t stop what she’s doing, remaining laser focused on trying to get one bit of dried blood out from under the nail of his index finger. “Because you’re hurt and I want you to rest,” she states plainly, not quite understanding why they are going over this again.

“I know but I mean….” He trails off, his jaw clenching as he clearly struggles to compose his thoughts. “You’re treating me like...” he continues, before stopping again.

Somehow, without him even saying it she knows what he means. She can see it in his face. It’s not an accusation, not by any means. Far from it, in fact. It’s more _disbelief_ than anything else.

She stops what she’s doing, pulling herself from her task to meet his eyes. “Like I care about you?”

He doesn’t say anything in response, but his eyes betray his silence, as they always seem to do.

“Of course I care about you, Lucifer,” she tells him, softly squeezing his hand. “I told you I love you, and I mean it.”

His plush, pink lips part, his eyes glisten, but still, he says nothing.

“I only want what’s best for you.” Even if what’s best for him means leaving him.

“But I—” His voice is rough. A sadness lurks in his slightly watery eyes. “I don’t deserve it,” he quietly admits.

Her heart just about breaks in two.

Is this why he’s been distant? He thinks he doesn’t deserve her— doesn’t deserve to be _happy?_ They’ve been through this before, a long time ago, on the beach, that day they’d shared their first kiss. A moment etched into her memory forever. He’d left then too.

But she thought he was past all that. She thought he’d _forgiven_ himself.

But clearly, given the proof that’s been staring her in the face since yesterday— the devilish wings that represent all the things he hates about himself— whatever happened to him in Hell changed that.

“You do,” is all she responds, silently continuing to clean his nails, switching to his other hand after the first seems about done.

She could tell him again, tell him that she’s there for him, try and get him to confide in her, but she knows it’s fruitless. He will talk when he’s ready.

So, she works in silence for the rest of the time. After his hands are clean, there’s not really much else she can do as he seems intent on scrubbing the rest of the muck from his person himself.

Rising from her spot on the floor beside him, she looks at his wings. She wonders if there’s something she can do for him there. Only aside from stating the obvious— that one is broken— she doesn’t really know anything about wings. How can she possibly help?

“Your wings,” she starts, causing him to stop what he’s doing and crane his neck to look at her, “you can’t put them away because this one is broken?” There’s a question in her tone, but she’s sure she already knows the answer.

He hums what seems like an affirmative before adding, “Seems that way, doesn’t it?” thoughtfully.

She raises an eyebrow at him, her mouth hanging agape for a second before she catches herself. “You don’t _know?”_ she asks in disbelief.

How does he not know? He’s a celestial being. They are _his_ wings, whether they are angelic or devilish.

He throws her a flat look. “And I suppose you know everything about the inner workings of your own body, do you?” 

_Huh._ He does have a point there. She doesn’t even know the names of all the bones in her body, never mind all the other complex systems that make her up as a person. Hell, even the names she does know hold little to no meaning for her.

She crosses her arms, chewing on her lip, feeling slightly embarrassed about the hypocrisy. “I _uh_ , guess not….”

“Well then.” He quirks his eyebrow, turning his attention back to cleaning his arms.

She worries her lip between her teeth for a moment longer, anxiously tapping her foot on the floor as she eyes the injured wing. “But if it _is_ broken does it need setting? Won’t it just…” she hesitates, the image of a broken arm bent the wrong way once again gracing her mind, “ _heal_ like that otherwise?” The image makes her feel a bit nauseous.

He hums again and drops the cloth he’d been using into the water, turning once again to peer over his shoulder.

“Will it fix itself when you… you know,” she waves her hand in the air in front of her in some vague gesture as she tries to piece together the little information she has about his wings, “when they disappear? When they go away, I mean.” When they go to wherever they are when they _aren’t_ here.

An incredulous look crosses his face, his eyebrows creeping upwards as she speaks, probably out of her ass if his expression is anything to go by. “They don’t just _stop_ existing when they aren’t visible, you know,” he tells her, looking at her like she should understand this, in the same way she understands that two plus two equals four. As though it should be basic knowledge for her.

“I don’t know how it works!” She throws her hands out to her sides. “I’m trying to understand but you’re really not being very helpful.” She huffs, jutting out her bottom lip a little as heat rushes to her cheeks.

His features soften, and somehow, he’s left looking disappointed with himself. “I apologise,” he says after a beat, “I didn’t mean to be so blunt, I just… my— _the_ wing doesn’t matter.”

She doesn’t miss his little slip there. _The wing_ , not _my wing_. Almost as if he’s trying desperately to separate himself from it.

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” she asks, frowning.

He shrugs a little, the water around him sloshing with the small movement. “It just doesn’t.”

 _“Why though?_ ” is what she wants to say. But she doesn’t. She needs to approach this logically. “Okay, but,” she steps back towards him, trying to keep his quickly fading interest in the conversation, “if you can’t move it now, and it heals like that, surely you won’t be able to move it when it’s healed.”

He tilts his head to one side. “That’s not an unreasonable assumption, I suppose.”

“And,” she continues, “if you can’t move it, you can’t put it away, right?”

At that he falls silent. It seems pretty simple when she lays it out like that. So why does he want to leave it? Unless there’s another reason, _another way_ that it will mend that he’s not telling her. Like… what happens to his other wings— the white ones— when he has the devilish ones? Do the pair coexist? Or are they the same wings with a different appearance?

There’s just so much she doesn’t know.

His gaze drops, staring down at the rapidly dwindling mountain of bubbles in front of him.

“If you can’t put your wings away, what are you going to do?” She takes a step forward, standing at his side. “Hm? Are you just going to stay in the penthouse forever and, what? Wallow in the mess you’ve made?”

A disgusted little scoff splutters from his lips at that. “It’s only what I deserve,” he spits out, venom coating his voice.

“No,” she says immediately, sternly. She doesn’t know why he thinks that, but she _has_ to tell him it’s not true. She _has to_ help him believe it. “You don’t deserve that, Lucifer.”

She gently places her hand on the top of his head, kneeling down at his side as she pulls her fingers down, caressing his face, gently guiding him to look at her. Tears shine in his eyes. Her thumb scratches over his stubble as he stares back at her with nothing but sorrow and self-hatred in his eyes.

“I don’t know why you think that, but it’s not true,” she tells him. “Please. Just let me help you.”

He swallows hard, and for a moment she thinks that he’s going to refuse her. That he really does _hate himself_ so much as to voluntarily cripple himself. But then, there is hope. He nods against her hand, a miniscule little motion that tells her that maybe he does believe her, deep down. Even just a little bit.

“Thank you,” she says softly, the ghost of a smile on her lips as she leans over and presses them to his temple, lingering for a moment, savouring the closeness and the feel of his skin against her lips.

“We should probably get you out of the bath first though,” she says as she pulls away.

A wan, watery smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes pulls at his lips. “Probably best,” he says, his voice strained but clearly putting in some effort to seem jovial, “I think I’m turning into a raisin.”

He pulls his now pruned fingers from the water and stares at them as if they’ve done something to offend him.

She can’t help the weak, sad little laugh that erupts from her.

He’s still her silly devil.

-

Getting him out is… tricky. She ends up half soaked as he clumsily slips, sloshing water everywhere whilst she only just manages to steady him.

He’s tired. That much is clear from the way his good wing moves behind him with less restraint than usual. The thing swipes wildly as he turns, completely totalling the little set of shelves that houses the towels and toiletries. 

“Oops,” he mumbles quietly, spinning to get a look at the mess he’s made, very almost totalling Chloe in the process.

She throws her arms up on instinct, dropping the towel she’d been holding, protecting her face as the giant, uninhibited appendage swipes at her. “Lucifer!” she cries out, narrowly managing to duck out of the way in time. 

His attention snaps back to her, turning and once again causing his wing to hit, and subsequently fling, the glass she’d used earlier across the room and into the wall, shattering it into a thousand tiny shards. 

“Just stop moving!” she cries out, hands raised defensively. Not that it would help. If he did hit her with his wing she would very likely go flying (ha _ha_ …). But still. She’s on alert and ready to dodge just in case. 

He freezes immediately, cringing slightly. His wing follows suit, barely moving save for the tiny little swaying motions that it always seems to make naturally as he breathes. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. 

Slowly, she lowers her hands, her stance quickly becoming more relaxed as she feels the threat pass. “That’s okay,” she tells him softly. It’s not his fault. She’s not sure what it must be like having wings, but at a guess she would say they must be difficult to handle in confined spaces. That much is evident from the wave of destruction that just one functional wing left in its wake. “Just… try not to turn too quickly, I guess.”

He hums in response, but his attention seems to be elsewhere. 

The towel she’d dropped in the commotion sits on the floor between them, right in the middle of the massive puddle of water that he’d created when getting out of the bath. It’s completely soaked, rendering it absolutely useless. 

“Just stay here, okay?” she tells him as she walks over to the linen closet, selecting two fresh towels and handing one to him. He takes it but doesn’t use it, choosing instead to stare at the hand that she holds out to him. “Come on,” she says, grabbing his hand when he doesn’t take hers and pulling him forward, out of the puddle of water. 

His wet feet pad on the marble floor as he steps forward, and realisation washes over his features. “Oh. Right.” 

“Get dry,”— she walks across the room towards the sink, picking up the boxers she’d got for him and throwing them at his head, hitting him square in the face— “and put those on.” 

He cries out, an indignant, albeit playful little complaint that coaxes a laugh from her lips. Swiping the boxers, he grumbles a bit before settling down, becoming fully focused on drying himself. 

She looks at the robe she’d picked out, but thinks better of it, leaving it to lay abandoned on the side. He probably can’t put it on, what with his wings and everything. She hadn’t really thought that one all the way through. 

As he gets dry, she does her best to do the same, patting down the damp material of her blouse as it clings to her dirty skin. It doesn’t do much good, but she can’t stand the feeling of being wet as well as dirty. She grimaces, pulling the filthy material away from her skin and doing the best she can to pat it dry with the towel. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, out of nowhere. 

He’s stopped what he was doing, still standing stark naked with the towel in one hand and his boxers tucked under his arm, staring at her. 

She hesitates for a moment before asking the dreaded question. “What for?”

“You’ve been helping me and I…”— he falters, shifting his weight from foot to foot on the spot— “I haven’t paid any mind to what you need.”

Her heart seems to skip a beat. “Lucifer, I—”

“No, Detective— Chloe, you’re dirty, wet, and probably exhausted because of me and yet you’re still here, helping me, and I don’t….” He trails off, but she knows what he was going to say. The look in his eyes exposes his true thoughts even when he can’t voice them. That he doesn’t deserve it. 

His gaze drops to his hands where he fidgets with the ring on his finger, radiating anxious energy. “I just don’t want you to hurt because of me,” he mumbles quietly, almost under his breath.

And isn’t that some sort of twisted paradox. That he thinks he’s hurting her because she’s a little bit uncomfortable. 

Quickly stepping into his space, she takes both his hands in hers, stilling his nervous fidgeting. “Lucifer,” she breathes, squeezing his hands just so, “look at me.” He does. Those dark depths hesitantly daring to just look at her. “You’re not hurting me. I would be dead right now if it wasn’t for you.”

It’s an infinitely difficult truth to voice, but it is just that. The truth. 

Yesterday, she had been about to die. 

She wouldn’t be standing here now if it weren’t for Lucifer’s intervention. 

It’s a scary thought. One that has haunted her for years. It always lurks in the back of her mind, reminding her how fragile life is. That it could end at any moment with no rhyme or reason. 

“You saved my life, Lucifer.”

Like he has so many times before. 

“And I can never, ever repay you for that.”

Her eyes sting, her lip trembling.

He doesn’t give any reply, his eyes just remain on her, boring into her, his mouth slack as though he can’t believe that she’s actually saying these words to him. 

“I get to see my daughter again because of you, Lucifer.” Tears flow unbidden now, running down her cheeks, leaving her lashes feeling sticky, despite her efforts to blink them away. “So when you say you don’t deserve it— that you don’t deserve this,”— she swallows hard, desperately trying to still the wobble that shakes her voice— “you have to believe me when I say you do.” 

For a long moment, they both just stand there, her quiet sniffles the only noise that seems to penetrate the bubble of silence that has fallen around them. He looks stunned. Shocked, like… like all the times he’s gotten hurt literally shielding her with his own body, every time he’s had her back, was nothing more than an instinct for him. An in-built reaction that he’d never really given much thought to. Like he hadn’t realised how much that means to her.

His lips part. His face creases softly as he looks at her with a glint in his eyes like she’s the only thing that matters. The only thing that will _ever_ matter to him. 

“You’ve saved me so many times,” she manages to get out, despite the way her throat seems to tighten with each word. “And you,”— a little sob escapes her, her hand almost unconsciously reaching out for him, longing to touch him— “you always get so hurt protecting me. I just—” 

She breaks herself off with a sob and, unable to restrain herself any longer, she lunges forward, throwing herself into him, wrapping her arms around him. She presses her face to his bare, slightly damp chest, hiding the tears that flow freely down her cheeks. He’s tense beneath her. In that state of shock that he always seems to fall into whenever she touches him.

“You really are my guardian Devil,” she whispers, sniffling and squeezing him tighter. 

His arms come up to encompass her as he melts into her touch, holding her against him all the more closely. He rests his head against hers, and she can feel his hot and slightly shaky breaths ghosting her ear. 

And then he replies, barely a whisper, almost as if it’s a secret that only they share, “I said I would do it again. And again.”

The familiar words gracing his lips makes her heart flutter like a wild thing in her chest. She pulls away slightly, just to look into his eyes. Just to see what she always sees there. That little thing that he struggles to admit to himself, no less to her.

One second stretches out infinitely between them. They are too lost in each other to pay any mind to the world around them. He’s like the sun and she’s caught in his gravity, getting pulled into him, unable to escape. Not that she would want to if she could. The world could be ending outside and she couldn’t care one bit. Not when she’s with him. 

She can’t stop herself. The one little syllable sitting on her tongue that slips free in an impulse that no one, not her nor all the power of Heaven and Hell can stop. 

“Why?” She whispers, so quietly it’s barely a sound at all. 

But he hears her, and without a single hint of hesitation, he answers. Only it isn’t really an answer at all.

“I will always protect you,” he replies, a little too quickly. His lips remain parted and something conflicted stirs in the fathomless depths of those dark eyes. Almost as if there’s more he wants to say, but he’s holding back.

“But _why?”_ she pushes further, desperation fogging her voice.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing along the smooth line of his throat as he presses his lips together and shakes his head a little.

For a moment she thinks that he’s closing himself off, _retreating_ again, but then, his lips part and three shaky, unsure little syllables slip free.

“Because I—” He cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment, clearly struggling with himself.

Pressing her hand to his cheek brings his focus back to her, his emotive eyes sparkling as they search hers once more. “ _Because what, Lucifer?”_ she whispers, a hushed little push, just to jar him onwards.

And then his plush, pink lips part, his face softening into something infinitely gentle, and he answers.

It’s an answer she already knows, but hearing it from his lips makes her heart swell. There are no words to adequately describe the feeling of complete and utter joy that the three words invoke within her. It’s absolutely, undeniably incandescent.

“Because… I love you.”

And she kisses him.

It’s as if all the yearning, all the _longing_ that has built up inside her these past months just… _erupts_ in an explosion of passion and desire and _love._

She’s waited such a long time for this. Not just the kiss, but for all of this. For him to finally voice the feelings that she knows, deep in her heart, he holds for her— _has held for her_ — for so long now.

Her fingers stray, burying themselves in his wet hair as she presses her lips to his, and he responds, his movements filled with just as much hunger as hers. It feels like he’s desperate to be close to her as one hand threads through her hair and the other slides lower, settling on her hip, pulling her tightly to him. He kisses her like she is his _salvation._ As though she is the only thing in the entire universe that he needs.

In a way, she suddenly feels like the gaping hole that has taken up residence in her heart is finally filling. That she is so much closer to being _complete_. Because she knows now. Without any trace of doubt or uncertainty, _she knows_.

He _does_ love her.

The thought makes her feel like a giddy schoolgirl. They are here, _together_ , finally. And he _loves_ her. Her heart soars with the knowledge.

And it’s only when he pulls away, both of them breathless, that it all comes crashing back down again. Not only do her cheeks flush as she suddenly becomes aware of how very _naked_ he is, but there’s something else too. Something so monumentally sad shining in those fathomless eyes of his. She can almost feel her heart shatter at the sight.

He takes one shaky step backwards, recoiling as if by instinct. His mouth is downturned, distress inundating his features. “I can’t—” he says shakily, before breaking himself off. In an instant, it’s almost as if he’s forgotten she’s standing there as he takes his head in his hands, his fingers tugging his hair too tightly. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t—” he gasps between ragged breaths.

He seems distraught, on the verge of panic, and she has no idea why or how to calm him down. She just stands there, stunned by the whiplash inducing mood change. “Lucifer,” she manages to get out, but she’s sure he doesn’t hear her over the sound of his own muttering.

His wing once again flaps wildly as he shifts on the spot, looking at everything and nothing. “I shouldn’t have—”

 _Shouldn’t have_ what? He shouldn’t have told her he loves her? Lucifer always tells the truth. She knows that with absolute, undisputable certainty. So, he _loves_ her. But for some reason he’s trying to hold himself back.

_But why?_

“Lucifer,” she says again, louder, more firmly this time.

Her voice seems to ground him, his eyes snapping up to meet hers and his hands falling to his sides.

“Hey,” she says softly, taking calm, measured steps towards him.

His wing settles, ceasing its violent, unruly flailing, and his face softens. The panic that has overcome him seems to abate somewhat, though his hands still tremble at his sides like little aftershocks. She takes one of them, gently squeezing it, and slowly guides him towards the bedroom.

“Come sit down.”

He follows her without a word through to the bedroom, and makes no complaint when she has him sit on the end of the bed. Something is wrong and it’s clearly eating away at him. She’ll be damned if she doesn’t find out what it is and _help_ him.

Leaving him there for a moment, she fetches his boxers from where he’d dropped them on the floor in the bathroom, and retrieves the glass of water she’d gotten him earlier. When she returns to perch herself on the bed next to him, he still looks distant. Like his mind is elsewhere. So, she tries to give him space, leaving a small gap between them, not wanting to overcrowd him.

“Would you mind…?” She offers him his pants, still feeling a little bit awkward even though it’s strikingly obvious that being nude doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

A sigh escapes him, a weary, worn sounding thing. “Sorry,” he grumbles, taking the garment and quickly working to slip his legs through the black silk. His gaze remains downcast after that, fixed on some undefined point on the floor. He’s slouched over, his hand settling on his injury, and he just looks… _dejected_ , tired, and so very done with everything. Like he wants to _give up_.

She wants nothing more than to bundle him up in her arms. To be able to tell him that it’s all going to be okay.

“Here”— she holds out the glass of water for him— “drink.” There’s no particular reason why, it just… feels like the only helpful thing she can do. She’s not sure if he had a panic attack back there, but he looks like he needs a few minutes to calm down before they go any further. And surprisingly, he takes the glass and starts to drink it slowly, lifting it to his lips and downing it without so much as a quip about how he was expecting vodka.

No humour from him is a warning sign if ever there was one. He has always, consistently used humour as a defence mechanism. A distraction, a way to divert attention from whatever is troubling him. Only when she’s seen him at his very lowest, close to his breaking point, is when that stops. When he’s so low that he hasn’t the energy or even the care to continue the façade.

They sit there for… a _while_. The alarm clock on the side table is broken, leaving her none the wiser about how long the silence lingers for. Lucifer just remains where he is, slumped down, the empty glass in his hand, his fingers tapping restlessly against it.

So, it’s a shock when the quiet is finally interrupted. When his voice slices through the silence, a rough grumble that seems to resound within the empty apartment.

“It was so much harder than I anticipated.”

At first, the words mean nothing to her. Her brain struggles to piece together the meaning that she so desperately wants. She doesn’t say anything though. She just sits there, patiently waiting for him to continue, knowing that he needs time to process his thoughts.

“I was naïve to think that I could return after _thousands_ of years had passed and things would just go back to the way they were.” He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, pursing his lips, shaking his head just slightly. “I was _stupid_ to think that nothing had changed.” He spits the words, almost as if he’s disgusted with himself.

He’s talking about Hell, she realises. It probably should have been obvious, but she’s tired and hasn’t had anything to eat in almost a day. And then there’s everything else on top of that, all the stress and worry that comes with caring for the Devil. But that’s a burden she will happily accept if it means she gets to _love_ him.

Wringing his hands around the glass in his grip, he falls silent once more. Whether it’s because it’s just too difficult for him to say, or because he doesn’t really want to, she can’t tell. All that she really knows is that, inside that head of his, he’s struggling. She isn’t really equipped to help him with his problems— Linda would be the go-to for that— but she can listen, and let him know that she’s there for him.

So, she dares to shuffle closer to him, closing the small space between them until they are almost shoulder to shoulder. Gently prising the glass from his fingers, she places it down on the floor beside the bed and takes his hand in her own, giving it a light squeeze, halting his ceaseless fidgeting. The action seems to do something to settle him, just as she’d hoped it would, because he chances a glance at her out of the corner of his vision.

She doesn’t really know what to say, or even if she should say anything at all. He’d been adamant about going back, even after she’d tried to stop him. He’d said it was what he needed to do to protect them, that he needed to finally embrace the responsibility that had been so unjustly thrust upon him so long ago.

“You were doing what you thought was right,” she tells him softly. “Trying to protect us, protect everyone you love.”

“Yes, and I was a _bloody_ _fool,”_ he snaps, suddenly jerking his hand away from hers. Pulling one hand through his hair, he mutters a quiet, mournful, “I _am_ a bloody fool.”

Her heart aches for him. “No, you’re not, Lucifer.” She strains to keep her hands where they are, forcing herself not to reach out for him again. “You’re so brave and strong, and—”

“And _what?”_ He cuts her off with a scoff, turning to her, his lips pulled into a nasty, self-deprecating smile. “ _Good?”_ His jaw clenches. His foot restlessly taps the floor. She gets the feeling that if he could stand up and pace the room without hurting himself or taking out windows with his wings, he would. Instead he just remains where he is, agitation radiating from him, his rage simmering just below the surface.

“You are a good man,” she chances, suspecting that it might make him angrier, but knowing that he needs to hear the truth.

“No,” he grinds out through gritted teeth, staring down at his hands in his lap, and shaking his head in denial of something that she knows is the truth. “No, I’m not.” He’s quiet for a long, tense moment, and then he turns to her.

Fire dances in his eyes, flickering, a red-hot inferno contained within his irises. “I’m a monster.”

Suddenly she feels overcome with a wicked sense of déjà vu. It’s like she’s right back there on that night so many months ago. After he told her that he hated himself. Clearly, the forgiveness that he thought he’d found hadn’t lasted. “Lucifer, no, you’re—”

“ _WHAT?”_ he roars, something ferocious in his voice, something so definitely _not_ human that it makes the short hairs on her arms stand on end. Every rational thought in her brain screams at her to run, but she resists. “ _LOOK AT ME!”_

He rises from the bed in one shockingly swift motion, though clearly he’s still in pain as he slouches to one side. His skin burns away, flames licking over the smooth planes and revealing the harsh, jagged landscape below. As he stands before her, she sees him, or more accurately, she sees how he perceives himself. His coarse, broken skin, scarred and burnt.

“I _am_ a monster,” he repeats, though this time his voice is rougher, rawer, than it usually is. Some sort of infernal growl resonating within him.

His wings droop uselessly behind him, the good one barely even able to keep itself up anymore. The scar across his abdomen remains on the red flesh but looks far nastier now; what was a flat scar practically a chasm in his side.

But still, even though he stands in front of her, trying to show her that he’s a monster, she doesn’t see it. He isn’t the Devil. Not to her. He’s just Lucifer.

Her Lucifer.

And he’s hurting so much.

She rises slowly from her seat. His chest heaves and his eyes carefully track her movements as she steps towards him.

“Lucifer,”— she raises her hands placatingly, trying to indicate that she means him no harm as she advances— “you’re not a monster. You’re a _good_ man and I know—

“What do you _know?”_ he snarls, his cracked lips curling viciously. “You don’t _know_ the things I’ve done.”

“I don’t, but—”

He cuts her off again, growling as he takes a menacing step towards her. It takes everything she has to suppress her instinct to step backwards. She’s _not_ afraid of him, and she’s not going to help him prove what he thinks to be true. She isn’t going to just _give up_ on him.

His anger seems to seep from him, somehow making the air around them _stifling._ As if the hatred he holds within is so powerful that it can affect reality itself.

“Lucifer,” she says softly, trying so desperately to keep her voice firm, willing away the wobble that threatens to betray her. “ _Listen_ to me.” She dares to take another step closer to him, her eyes firmly fixed on the fire that dances within his. “You are _not_ a monster. You’re my _partner_ and a _good_ man. I _know_ you are.” Tears prickle her eyes as she speaks.

All this happening again is a lot to bear. Seeing him like this, so _lost_ , is heart-breaking. She sees now that it was too good to be true when he’d come back and Hell had seemingly had no effect on him. She was stupid to ever think it was going to be that easy. To think that he could go back there, _sacrificing_ everything he had, and it wouldn’t have left lasting damage.

But no. In a very Lucifer type fashion, he’d just buried it deep down and probably hoped that his problems would just… go _away._ That’s not how it works though is it? Things don’t disappear. Trauma doesn’t just _fade_. It sits within you, a black mark that mars your soul, only growing bigger, insidiously creeping further, seeping into every part of you the longer you ignore it. If you leave it long enough, it’ll just consume you whole.

Well she isn’t going to let that happen to him. Not again.

“You saved me, Lucifer, so many times. You saved Charlie and Trixie and so many other people.” She tries to recall every time over the years when they’ve been in a difficult situation and he’s saved them, or someone else. There are too many times to count. They’ve done _so much_ good together; she just needs to help him remember that. “You’ve helped stop killers and found justice for victims and their families.”

He _is_ good. Every breath she takes is evidence of that. She wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him.

“Are those things a monster would do?”

His rising fury seems to falter at that, something softening in those harsh features of his. The fire in his eyes abates for one short second before promptly raging again.

She _is_ getting through to him though. She can see it. All she needs to do is keep at it. Keep chipping away at that rough exterior and free him.

Taking one more step forward, she reaches out, placing her hand gently on his. The red skin is warm to the touch and rough beneath her fingers. He blinks slowly, something in him deflating as his gaze falls to her hand on his.

“You’re not a monster,” she tells him again. “I’ve _seen_ monsters. They don’t care about anyone but themselves, and they certainly don’t care whether they are a good person or not.” She squeezes his hand, the jagged surface scratching at her skin, but she ignores it. “That’s not you, Lucifer. You _care_ about people. You care about being good.”

He swallows hard, digesting her words for a few long moments before meeting her eyes once more. Even in these unfamiliar features she can see it. The remorse that weighs upon him.

“But I…” he starts, trailing off and squeezing his eyes closed as if fending off some horrible memory. Then he takes a breath and opens them, directing her an ice-cold glare, despite the fire that rages within.

“I killed them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ _Cue dramatic music_ ]


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer finally speaks about what happened in Hell, and an enlightened Chloe offers him some much needed reassurances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we come to the end of another story! Thanks so much to my Betas [NotOneLine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotOneLine/pseuds/NotOneLine) and [Shazzam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shazzam/pseuds/Shazzam) and a huge thank you to all you lovely people for sticking with me through another fic, commenting, kudosing, and just generally being rather lovely. I hope you all enjoy the conclusion! <3 This chapter is a bit of a longer one as you'll see, I've just tagged the epilogue onto the end there instead of posting separately as it was rather short on it's own.
> 
> ***Warning: Some depictions of blood, injury and gore***

“You… _what?”_ Her breath catches in her throat.

“I _killed_ them,” Lucifer repeats, and this time she can hear the sorrow creeping back into his voice, see the way the fire in his eyes dims.

He killed _someone?_ More than one person? Who? How could he kill someone in Hell? Aren’t the people there already dead?

She tries to speak again, but finds that her voice is annoyingly absent. He wouldn’t kill someone unless it was absolutely necessary. _Would he?_

No. He’s Lucifer. He’s _her_ Lucifer. He _is not_ a monster.

Whatever he did, he did it because he was protecting them. She _has_ to believe that.

“Lucifer, I’m sure that whatever you did, you did because you didn’t have any other choice.” She can hear the desperation in her own voice, and she’s sure he picks up on it too.

There’s a moment where he looks somehow thoughtful. A moment where she thinks he’s seen reason.

“You’re right,” he says quietly, his gravelly voice scraping over each syllable. “I had no choice.”

Suddenly it feels like she can breathe again. Like a weight has lifted from her shoulders, freeing her. And then he speaks again, and she’s hit once more with what feels like a ton of bricks. The ache in her soul returns quickly, and with vengeance.

“ _At first.”_

The exact meaning of his words escapes her. But she can tell by the way his features harden that whatever it is, isn’t good. He had no choice ‘at first’… What does that mean? “I… I don’t understand.” She frowns, shaking her head a little, tears prickling her eyes. “You killed someone? Aren’t all the people in Hell already dead? How could you—”

“The demons.” He says the word like it physically pains him. “The ones that came here… they came looking for their king. Even after the thousands of years that I had been absent, they remained loyal to me, even if they did betray me in the end.”

He pulls his hand away from hers and takes a step backwards, until his wings bump the wall behind him. He’s putting distance between them, not just physically, but _emotionally_ as well. She can feel him retreating back behind the walls he uses to protect himself. 

That isn’t going to happen, not if she can help it. Whatever happened down there is eating away at him and he _needs_ to talk about it. 

“They were the only ones. The others,”— he scoffs, a nasty visceral sound, throwing his hands out to his side— “well, let’s just say they weren’t so pleased to have me back.”

He averts his gaze, looking out of the window. At what, she isn’t exactly sure. Maybe he just doesn’t want to look at her. “A lot had changed in the thousand— probably _hundreds of thousands_ of years that I was gone.”

Her mind struggles with that for a moment, her lips parting, a question sitting on the tip of her tongue. He lived in LA for five years prior to meeting her, so he can only have been gone, _what?_ Eight, nine years max? “What do you mean hundreds of thousands of years?”

He huffs to himself, shaking his head like he’s forgotten some tiny little insignificant detail. “Time works _differently_ in Hell. A minute here can feel like _years_ there.”

He says it like it’s nothing. Like he expects her to pay no heed to the information he’s just handed her. As if she shouldn’t care about all the implications that it has.

“That sounds… _horrible_ ,” she chokes out, unable to quiet the thought that reminds her he was gone for _months._ How long did it feel like to him? Centuries? Millennia?

That amount of time in a place designed for torture is sure to cause untold damage. She feels angry with herself for not considering all this before. For not just _talking_ to him about it sooner.

“Well,” he says, raising what would be an eyebrow, if there were any hair on his horrifically burnt face, “It _is_ Hell.”

It is. And that’s not something he deserves. He _never_ deserved to be there. No matter what he did as a kid. No one deserves that, and no parent should ever do that to their child. God or not.

She so desperately wants to reach out to him, to offer him some sort of comfort, but the aura he’s exuding warns her to stay away. Talking about this is obviously putting him on edge, but he _is_ talking, so at least that’s a step in the right direction.

Now it just seems like he needs her to listen.

“In the time that I was gone, things had changed a lot.” He pauses a moment, his gaze growing distant as he continues to stare out of the window. After a moment though, he shakes himself and continues. “The demons had formed their own alliances, leaders rising among them. Demons are power hungry, backstabbing little bastards, always looking for opportunity to seize control, to have _more_ than their fellow demon.” He stops again, his eyes flickering over the room, a smile that is in no way happy creasing his lips. “And I guess a lot of them saw me leaving for my little vacation _as_ that opportunity.”

Does he feel guilty about leaving Hell all that time ago? About abandoning his responsibilities? But, no matter what, he shouldn’t have had them in the first place. He didn’t deserve to be punished. Forcing him to run Hell, to torture, to be the guardian of the worst humanity has to offer? That’s no life for anyone. It’s a cruel injustice. One that she wishes she could right.

But she can’t. What’s done is done. All she can do is vow that if she ever meets his Dad, she’ll be sure to have a stern word or two for him. Maybe a sucker punch too. Who knows?

She listens intently as Lucifer continues talking. The urge to offer him some sort of comfort is overwhelming, but the fear of interrupting him and not hearing what he has to say is greater.

“When I returned, a war was raging. Of course, the throne of Hell was designed to be held by a celestial, a being with _wings_ to be exact. But with me gone and Amenadiel unwilling to do more than guard the gates, stopping errant souls from escaping, the demons saw their chance and took it. Many refused my rule when I returned, defying my orders, testing my patience. Some even tried a more… _lethal_ approach. They saw that without Mazikeen by my side, I was exposed.” He waves his hand gesturing to the grotesque wound that mars his side. “Thought they could dispose of me while I was sleeping.” A disgusted little noise forms in his throat. “Almost _bloody_ worked too.”

They tried to _kill him_ in his sleep? And he almost died? She came so close to losing him and she didn’t even know it. Where would she be right now if they’d have managed to kill him? She probably wouldn’t even be alive….

His hand goes to his side, tracing over the scar, if you can call it that. The deep gouge that cuts through him, accentuated in this form, she imagines. She wonders why it has formed a scar, and not just healed like the rest of his wounds have. Is it something to do with gaining the injury in Hell, or is it simply because he feels like he _deserves_ to be marked like that? Her gut tells her it’s probably the latter, but before she can ask, he’s already speaking again.

“And you see, I had a lot of time to think while I was down there, and the more I thought, the _angrier_ I became. Angry at myself, at my _Father_ ,” he almost growls that word, the flames in his eyes suddenly growing more restless, “but most of all at _those demons_.”

As he speaks the low growl in his voice seems to rise, his simmering anger rising to a boil.

“They forced me back down there, to that place that I _detest_. And _for what?”_ He snaps so loudly and so suddenly that she jumps on the spot. “They didn’t even _want me there_!” Distress and anger rages like a storm in his voice. Understandably so. If she were in his position, she’d be angry too. “But I couldn’t just _leave_ , could I? Not while those who wanted freedom, who wanted _what I HAD,_ remained.”

He grits his teeth, steeling his jaw as he clenches his fist at his sides. As if physically attempting to keep his anger under wraps. “So, I stayed,” he grinds out. “I told myself that I would stay because it was what I had to do, but I was _so_ angry and I…” he falters, his fiery gaze dropping to the floor. “I missed Earth. I missed _you.”_

Those last words are a quiet, vulnerable admission. He _missed her_. For a moment she reflects upon how she’d felt when he left. That ache in her heart that had refused to leave her. Oh, how she had missed him. And now all she can think about is how much _worse_ it had been for him.

For a moment, he hesitates, his downcast gaze looking almost watery before he shakes himself and continues.

“And then, one day, I found out that a certain group was plotting against me, and I just _snapped.”_ There’s such hatred in his voice, such utter revulsion that it makes her skin crawl and her heart shatter. “I suppose it was inevitable really, only a matter of time before one of them got the _smart idea_ to threaten _you_. To threaten my life on Earth in the hope that I would leave and let them all do whatever they bloody well pleased.”

Her throat feels ridiculously constricted, a lump lodged there that she just can’t free herself of. Demons had threatened _her?_ This is all because of her? She feels like she’s about to puke, bile rising, burning her throat.

“And so, I killed the piece of scum that was the mastermind behind the whole plan. He didn’t even see it coming. They all thought that Earth had _changed me_ , that I’d gone _soft._ ” He shakes his head dejectedly before continuing, “I killed his minions and I kept killing them.” He grits his teeth, a low, angry growl resonating from him. The air around him seems to get hotter, creeping in, oppressing her. “Even when they _begged_ me to stop, _pledged_ their eternal loyalty to me, _swore to obey me_ , I still killed them.”

She feels her heart pound hard against her sternum, blood thrumming in her ears with each word.

“I told myself I did it to protect you. That I did it because I had no choice, but I know I was just lying to myself. I did it because deep down, I _am_ a monster.”

The words seem to linger in the air, the mixture of fury and sorrow imbuing them, making them resonate within her.

“By the time I was done with the traitors, no demon dared defy me again. They were terrified of me, rightly so. Who wouldn’t be scared of _this?”_

Unable to help herself, she steps forwards. He bristles at the sudden movement, his wing twitching and his stance becoming a little more defensive, before she takes his hand once more and he freezes completely. The tension doesn’t leave his body, but he doesn’t pull away again either, so she takes it as a win.

Squeezing his hand once more, she shakes her head, desperately trying to calm her racing heart. “I’m not scared of you, Lucifer.”

Even if he killed those demons, they were threatening her, planning to come to Earth. The havoc they would have wreaked… who knows how many innocent people would have gotten hurt, or worse. He didn’t have a choice but to stop them. Can’t he see that?

“I thought I could just…”— he throws his hands out to his sides, his face twisting into a horrible despairing expression filled with self-loathing— “ _forgive myself_ , butI hate what I am,” he says, his voice no longer rough with anger, but filled with sorrow. “The longer I stayed there, the more… _lost_ I felt. It’s like… I don’t recognise myself anymore. And I thought that if I came back, it might help me remember. _You_ might help me remember who I am.” He shakes his head, blinking as a stray tear escapes him and gets lost in the craggy surface of his face.

“ _Oh, Lucifer,”_ she breathes, reaching out for him, taking his face in her hand, her thumb wiping away another tear as it falls.

“The demons— or at least what’s left of them— are too afraid of me to leave, and Hell practically runs itself anyway, so I thought I could return, and we could go back to solving cases together, and I—” He sniffles, cutting himself off. It’s an odd sound, one that is discordant to the face that she sees before her. “You always made me a better man, but I… I don’t deserve you.”

It’s then that she throws her arms around his neck, pulling him into a strong hug. The fact that he’s in his devil form doesn’t even register in her brain anymore. He’s just Lucifer, and he’s suffering. “Yes, you do,” she whispers into his ear, fingers brushing over the harsh surface of his back. “You _are a good man,_ Lucifer Morningstar.”

And then the coarseness beneath her seems to melt away, smooth warm skin forming beneath her fingers as his devilishness fades away. She squeezes him tighter, revelling in the feel of his warmth.

His hands don’t come up to encompass her, but he doesn’t pull away either. He just stands there, allowing her to hold him, letting them just _be_.

Eventually her hands start to feel tingly from having to reach up around his neck, so she shifts her position, wrapping her arms around his middle instead. Her head rests on his still bare chest, and she can hear his heart steadily thumping. A soothing reminder that he _is here._

“See?” he says when they finally separate, his voice still a bit rough, but nothing compared to how it sounds when his other face is present. He holds one hand out before him, his long fingers trembling. “You make me better.” A bemused yet infinitely sad little smile graces his features. His eyes glisten in the soft sunlight that filters through the light curtains, slightly watery and a little red-rimmed.

Her heart aches for him as she takes his outstretched hand in hers, pulling her thumb across his palm, tracing his lifeline before curling her fingers around it. “Oh, Lucifer,” she says, hearing the sadness that resides within her seeping out into her own voice, hearing that _ache_ that she has for him. “I didn’t do anything except tell the truth.”

His lips part, but no words spill free of them.

Taking his other hand, they stand face to face, barely a foot apart, as finally they confront everything. There’s no more hiding now.

“Do you trust me?” she asks, looking deep into the depths of his soulful eyes. She knows the answer. He’s her _partner_. They have always been partners. And if there’s anyone you need to be able to trust, it’s your partner.

Something flickers across his face, his expression steeling, almost as if he’s offended that she would even have to ask that. “Of course I do,” he replies, barely missing a beat.

“So, you believe me when I tell you that you _are_ a good man.” It’s a bit of an unfair tactic, she realises, using their partnership against him like that, but it’s for his own good.

His gaze falls to the floor, his hands going limp in her grasp, but she doesn’t let him go. “I….” He tries, but his words fail him, and he shakes his head, swallowing hard. His mouth downturns into a woefully twisted thing. His walls are down now, and beneath the anger, all that remains is sorrow. “I want to.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. The conflict that stirs within him creases his face as his jaw tenses and he shifts on the spot.

She senses that there’s something more to say, that there’s something he _wants_ to say, he just doesn’t know how. So, she waits patiently, allowing him time to process his thoughts, not pushing him. Eventually, it pays off.

“I just…” he tries again, anxiety causing a tremor in his voice. When he looks back at her, those big brown eyes seem to plead with her, begging her for help. “I just feel so lost,” he finally says. “I don’t— I don’t know who I am anymore. The only thing I ever wanted was to be my own man and,”— he presses his lips together, shaking his head— “I fear that I’ve become exactly what my Father wanted me to be.”

She squeezes his hands softly, tears blurring her own vision. She wishes that she could say something to make this better, to offer him some kind of reassurance, but what can she say? Instead she pulls him towards her, guiding him back towards the bed. He puts up no resistance as she settles him back down against the headboard, positioning his wings so that they lay splayed, spilling over either side of the bed.

She can feel his eyes on her, tracking her movements. When she glances up at him, he looks agitated. Knowing Lucifer, he’s probably expecting the worst. For her to leave after he’s opened himself up to her. Not this time though.

Kicking off her boots, she crawls over the mattress and settles herself beside him. She doesn’t ask if it’s okay, she just does it.

He’s tense beneath her, and she can still feel his eyes on her, practically boring into her. “What are you doing?” Just as she suspected, there’s that unmistakable shock in his voice. The surprise there that conveys the sad fact that he thought she was going to leave. That he thought she was going to follow the trend and abandon him, just as everyone else in his life has. It’s sad how used to that reaction she’s become really.

“Did you think I was going to just leave you?” She smiles softly up at him, settling her head against his shoulder and draping her arm over his middle.

He doesn’t respond, solidifying the fact in her mind that he _did._

“Have you spoken to Linda about all of this?” It feels like a bit of a delicate question, and she hopes that he doesn’t take it as her trying to put the responsibility of his problems onto someone else, because that’s not it at all. Linda has helped him so much over the years, and honestly, she seems like the only person who is equipped to help him really _deal_ with his problems.

A sigh escapes him. “No,” he replies mournfully. For a moment, he remains quiet, thoughtful, even. He shifts to get more comfortable, his arm snaking around her shoulders in what she might consider to be almost an unconscious decision. “I didn’t want to bother her. She has Charlie now… she’s _happy._ ” For the briefest of moments, he falters before adding, “She doesn’t need me bloody _ruining_ that too.”

Now that she thinks about it, he hasn’t mentioned going to therapy in the weeks they’ve been working together. Truthfully, it hadn’t really crossed her mind. It probably should have, given that in the past he would take every opportunity to make a case about himself, including bringing the fact that he did regularly attend therapy. Usually followed by, _“how LA of me,”_ like it was something he did just because it was _on trend,_ not because he really had some issues he needed to work out.

“Have you seen Linda at all since you got back?” Judging by the state of his penthouse, she would wager that the answer to that is no. He’s lost and confused, and he’s been trying to suppress it all this time. It’s come out in the only way Lucifer truly knows how to express himself, in _anger._ Unfortunately, his possessions— the things that he probably thinks he doesn’t _deserve_ — have taken the brunt of it all.

He shrugs a little, jostling her where she leans against him. “A couple of times. She offered me my usual sessions back, but I turned her down.”

Chloe raises an eyebrow, turning to look at him properly, one hand on his chest for leverage. It seems odd that Linda wouldn’t be concerned about him, she’s _really good_ at picking up on things like that. “And Linda wasn’t, you know… _worried_ about you or anything?”

“Oh no, she was,” he replies easily, gesturing vaguely with one hand, “but like I said before, I didn’t want to be a burden to her.”

Reaching out, she takes his face in her hand, brushing her thumb across his stubble. He averts his gaze, a look lingering in his eyes that is akin to disappointment. “You should talk to her,”— she hums, gently applying pressure to bring his gaze back to her— “I’m sure she doesn’t think you’re a burden. She just wants to help, and you need to talk to someone.”

She tries to say it as softly as possible, as to not upset him, but he still bristles at the comment. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

“You are, and I want to say thank you for opening up to me. I know how difficult it is for you, but…” she hesitates, worrying her lip between her teeth as she pulls herself up a little straighter, “Lucifer, I don’t know if I can give you the help you need.”

He just stares back at her, a profound sadness saturating his tired looking face.

“I support you and you can _always_ talk to me, but I think you need more than that.” She places her hand over his heart, feeling the soft, rhythmic thud of it against her palm. “I _love_ you, and I just want what’s best for you.” Pausing, she splays her fingers, reveling in the feel of his skin on hers. “I want you to be _happy_ , and I really think Linda can help you deal with everything you’re feeling much better than I can. Just, _please,_ when you’re feeling better,”— she eyes his yet-to-be-dealt-with broken wing and the bullet wound that still looks fairly raw— “promise me you’ll go see her?”

“I… I promise,” he says solemnly, nodding. His hand comes up to rest on top of hers, his fingers curling around her palm, holding it against his heart.

“Thank you,” she replies, leaning over to press her lips to his, closing her eyes and just basking in him.

It doesn’t last long. She pulls away, settling back into the space at his side, her body curling into his as his arm pulls as close as physically possible to him.

For a long time, they are both content just to stay like that.

-

She wakes. The first thing she feels is a pounding ache in her temple, sending tendrils of pain throughout her head before she even opens her eyes.

_Urgh._ Where even is she?

Cracking her eyes open just a fraction, trying to shake the grogginess that has settled deep in her bones, she sees that she’s in the penthouse, and it looks like it’s getting dark out.

She must have fallen asleep, and… Lucifer is still beside her. Well, more like _beneath_ her now, almost. It would seem that in her sleep she’d tried to get closer to him, her arm still draped over his middle and his chest becoming her pillow. Not a very comfortable one at that, she thinks, lifting her head and rubbing her now sore ear.

He’s asleep too, his chest rising and falling rhythmically as he slumbers soundly.

Pulling herself up, she looks around the room. Golden-orange light casts long shadows over it as the sun sinks below the horizon, giving way to deep blues and purples. They must’ve been asleep a fair few hours. _God_ knows how, given that she slept so long last night. Though it wasn’t necessarily the soundest of sleep.

Her stomach _hurts_. Hunger pains tear through her and she clutches at her stomach, trying to quell the grumble that erupts from within. She hasn’t eaten in… over a day. It’s really no wonder she’s so tired, now that she thinks about it. She’s sure Lucifer must be hungry too. The man eats like a ravenous dog at the best of times.

“Hey, Lucifer,”— she places her hand on his arm and gently shakes him awake— “wake up.”

He does, grumbling a little as he returns to consciousness, his eyes settling on her immediately, causing the ghost of a smile to pull at his lips. “’Tective,” he slurs, rubbing his eye with the palm of his hand, before pulling it through his unruly mess of hair.

“Hey.” She can’t help the fond little smile that spreads across her own face. He just looks so adorable sometimes. “You hungry?”

“Bloody _famished_ ,” he huffs, a gruff sounding thing.

Humming in agreement, she snatches her phone from where it lies on the bedside table, quietly thanking _whoever_ when she clicks on the screen and sees that it still has charge. Only 19%, but still enough to do what needs to be done. “Takeout?” she asks, just imagining how she could absolutely murder a curry right now… or pizza… or _anything_ really.

A laugh escapes her as a pleasurable, overdramatic ( _as always)_ sigh erupts from him. “Sounds _marvellous._ ” He cranes his neck, shifting himself to look over her shoulder, peering at the screen as she scrolls through the nearby takeout places. “You know the pizza place down the road is _very_ good, and they give me free food, not that it matters.” He shrugs a little. “It isn’t like I can’t pay for it, but it’s nice to be appreciated.”

“What, does the owner owe you a favour or something?” she asks idly, scrolling in search for this specific pizza place.

He chuckles. It’s a nice sound, one she realised she’s come to miss these past few weeks. “No, nothing like that.”

She comes to a sudden stop in her search, her eye’s widening as she reads one specific name. “ _Lucifer’s Pizza?”_ she asks, turning to him, her eyebrows creeping up as she stares at him in disbelief. “Do you _own_ a pizza place?”

Should she really expect anything less of him now? She’s seen how many fancy properties he owns, scattered across the city. Him owning a takeout isn’t beyond the realm of possibilities.

“No,” he replies, still chuckling, a light, hearty sound that fills her with joy. “The owner is just a _fan,_ that’s all.”

Cocking an eyebrow at his, she frowns. “A fan? Of you?” She asks the question knowing it will wind him up just a little. “Why would anyone be a fan of you?”

A cocky little grin spreads across his face. “Maybe you ought to ask yourself that. After all,” he drawls, his grin growing wider as he waves his hand in the space between them, “you are a fan, are you not?”

Screwing her face up, she tries to frown, but can’t quite hide her smile. “I wouldn’t say _fan_ , exactly.” She plays it up, making it look like she’s trying to think of reasons why, and then starts counting off on her fingers, “You irritate the crap outta me, you make everything about yourself, and you never, _ever”_ — she pauses, just to be dramatic— “ _shut up.”_

He flashes his teeth at her, his grin now a beaming smile. “But you do _love me._ ”

Something inside of her soars at his words, at the fact that he knows for definite how she feels about him. That they are finally on a level playing field. Sighing, she tilts her head to one side and rolls her jaw as if thinking about it, leaving him hanging just because she can, and then finally says, “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Leaning forwards, she presses her lips to his, and feels him smile against her.

“Anyway, let’s order,” she says, quickly pulling away, much to his obvious disappointment, “I think my stomach is eating itself.”

He quickly snatches the phone out of her hand and dials the pizza place before she can even tell him what she wants. “Hello there,” he says, winning smile still in full force upon his handsome face. She tries to tell him what she wants, but he just raises his index finger, silently shushing her. “It’s Lucifer.” He hums a few times and rolls his eyes, making a gesture with his hand like a talking mouth as he half listens to whoever is babbling at the other side of the line. “Yes, the usual if you’d be so kind. Bye now.”

And then he puts the phone down, tossing it to the side before directing her a salacious look. “Now, where were we?”

She laughs again and oh, it feels good. The banter, the _easiness_ of it all. It’s all she ever really wanted. And seeing him smile again— even though she knows he’s still struggling with himself— she suspects that their talk, and the fact that she _hadn’t run_ from him, has lifted some of the weight from him at least.

Regretfully, she forces herself to wiggle out of his reach as he tries to kiss her again. He pouts like an adorable little puppy dog as she does, which kind of makes it worth it.

“I’m gonna jump in the shower before the pizza gets here,” she tells him, then adds as an afterthought, “if that’s okay?”

He slumps backwards, resting once more against the headboard, and shrugs. “I mean, I can think of much more fun things we could be doing, but very well.”

She smiles as she makes her way into his bathroom, leaving him to pout on his own. It’ll be good to get clean and out of these dirty clothes. She’s sure he won’t mind if she commandeers one of his dress shirts to wear afterwards.

-

Fifteen minutes later she emerges from the bathroom, her hair still a bit damp and a fluffy towel wrapped around herself. It feels good to be free of the grime that had collected on her skin and just be _clean_. She’d borrowed Lucifer’s fruity shampoo and she can smell it lingering on her skin, tickling her nose.

Her body still aches, but the heat of the shower combined with the massage setting on the shower head felt like luxury to her sore muscles. Now she feels all warm and fuzzy and ready for a lie down, but her stomach still growls unhappily at her.

Lucifer eyes her as she walks through the bedroom. She gets the distinct feeling that he’s looking at her bare legs, but she doesn’t really care. In fact, she kind of likes it. “Mind if I borrow a shirt?” she asks, already well on her way to his wardrobe, knowing damn well that he won't refuse her anything.

“Of course, love,” he purrs, before his tone drops half an octave and he adds, “Though I’d much prefer if you didn’t.”

She huffs in amusement, shaking her head as she disappears through the doorway and shouts, “ _Perv_ ,” over her shoulder with a laugh.

It doesn’t take long to pick out a white dress shirt and slip it on. The piece of clothing is baggy on her, going almost to her mid-thigh, and she has to roll up the sleeves a little to stop them from flapping about. It’s comfortable though, but she already knew that, maybe from having _borrowed_ a couple in the past to use as night shirts.

When she goes back through to the bedroom, Lucifer’s eyes are closed, probably dozing, and she’s about to throw herself back down beside him when she’s so rudely interrupted by the elevator dinging. It must be the pizza, thankfully quicker than she expected.

Lucifer perks up, suddenly awake, his face lit up with anticipation. “It’s about bloody time.” He pulls himself up, his wing twitching and—

_Shit_. Sudden panic washes over her as she sees the delivery guy step out of the elevator through the bedroom doorway. He can’t see Lucifer’s wings.

Rushing out of the bedroom and down the steps, she stops the guy near the bar, greeting him with a nervous smile as she pulls the shirt down, feeling a little bit self-conscious about showing her legs off to a stranger.

Luckily, he’s balancing way too much stuff in his hands to pay much attention to anything else. There’s a stack of _five_ pizza boxes in one of his hands, and the other holds a paper bag stuffed to the brim with _God_ _knows_ what else.

“Pizza for Lucifer,” the guy says, finally looking at her properly, not really seeming to care that she doesn’t appear to be Lucifer.

She hums, nodding. “Uh, yeah. Thanks. Let me just—” Hurriedly, she goes to relieve him of the mountain of boxes, the delicious aroma wafting through the air and already teasing her, making her mouth water and her stomach grumble in anticipation.

They wobble in her hand as he passes them to her, and he smiles, reaching out to stop them from falling. “I can just put them down over—” He points to the table closest to them, stepping towards it, but Chloe quickly halts him, putting her arm out to stop him advancing any further into the apartment.

A quick glance over her shoulder shows her that from here, she can just see the tip of Lucifer’s wing through the archway into the bedroom. She definitely can’t let him any further inside, lest he spot them.

“Here’s fine!” she exclaims. “I’ve got them!”

He frowns a little bit, probably at her jerky movements or the sudden wave of panic that she fails so spectacularly to hide, but he just shrugs it off, handing her the boxes anyway.

It’s a little bit of a balancing act, but she manages, and just as Lucifer had said, the delivery guy doesn’t ask for payment. He simply walks back to the elevator, wishing her a good evening as he goes.

“This is _the usual_?” she asks, peering into the bag as she sets the pile of boxes down on the bed. “Usual for _what exactly?”_ Parties maybe? Well, more likely _orgies._ Thinking about Lucifer’s… _extra-curricular activities_ isn’t something she does very often. In fact, she tries to keep it at the very back of her mind. Like… _waaaay_ back there.

Honestly, she finds the stuff he gets up to, or at least used to get up to, pretty gross. Deep within her, she worries that it will affect their relationship moving forward, how different they are when it comes to that sort of thing. But she also supposes that if she never gives him a chance, then she knows she will regret it for the rest of her life. Maybe it won’t even be a problem anyway.

Lucifer just shrugs back at her, already greedily snatching the top box and opening it to reveal the steaming hot circle of deliciousness within. “I get hungry,” he says, already stuffing a slice of what looks like pepperoni into his mouth.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, probably because you’re stoned out of your mind,” she sighs, shaking her head. “Don’t think I didn’t find your stash.”

“I like to have fun, so shoot me,” he replies with his mouth full, quirking an eyebrow at her. He chews thoughtfully before swallowing, and then tilts his head to one side, directing a dazzling smile at her. “Oh no wait, I believe you’ve already done that.”

Chloe rolls her eyes, yet still smiles fondly. How is it that she’s so in love with this idiot?

She watches as he polishes off his first slice of pizza and doesn’t even wait until he’s finished swallowing to pick up the second.

“Urgh,” she says, trying to feign disgust, but not doing a very good job of it. “You’re a pig.”

“Healing is hungry work, Detective!” This time he thankfully doesn’t have his mouth full, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. At this rate there won’t be anything left for her if she doesn’t make a start. “You want me to heal, don’t you?”

She hums back dubiously. He’s definitely more manageable like this, that’s for sure, she thinks offhandedly, busying herself by sitting down on the bed and grabbing a slice of pizza.

And maybe it’s just because she’s so damn hungry but it’s the best pizza she’s ever eaten. The cheese melts in her mouth, the herbs tantalising her taste buds, and there’s just the right amount of puree to balance out the saltiness. The delighted groan that the heavenly taste draws out from her lips comes unbidden and is a little bit embarrassing to say the least. Especially as Lucifer stops eating to just stare at her with a shit eating grin on his face.

“Told you it was good.” He smirks, looking far too smug for her liking.

She hums, swallowing and licking the saltiness from her lips. “It is, but I really doubt we are going to be able to eat all of this.” Pulling the brown bag closer to her, she rummages inside and finds fries, a box of mozzarella sticks, and a handful of various assorted sauce packets.

He chuckles, picking up yet another slice (she hadn’t even seen him finish the last one) and gets to work shovelling that into his mouth too. “Would you like to make a wager, Detective?”

All it takes is her watching him as he devours the slice in his hand in three massive mouthfuls to change her mind. “No,” she replies, slightly horrified at the winged pizza eating machine that sits before her. “I’m good actually.”

True to his word, and much to her horror, he finishes off the food. Every last bit of it. Four pizzas, a garlic bread, fries, and mozzarella sticks. She helps of course, but she only manages maybe one pizza and a handful of fries before she starts to feel a little bit sick. But apparently, when it comes to eating, Lucifer is unstoppable. Maybe she should have guessed as much from the amount of junk she always catches him snacking on.

It’s really a wonder that he’s still so skinny.

“You know,” he starts, pausing only to lick his fingers clean, “it’s funny what you miss when you’re deprived of everything.”

He says it offhandedly, but it still reminds her of everything he’s been through. Reminds her of the time that he spent in that horrible place. Her eyes widen a little as she looks at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice that she’s even paying attention, as he sinks down into his pillows with a content little smile on his face. “ _Everything?”_ she asks, not able to help herself.

He just hums back, his smile not fading as if he’s not phased by it in the slightest. “There’s no food in Hell. Well,” he shrugs lazily, his eyelids drooping as he speaks, “nothing that’s worth eating. I suppose it’s a good thing that sustenance isn’t a necessity down there. And there’s no music either, aside from whatever monstrosity is being used to torture people. That Bieber fellow has been popular the past decade and recently there’s been this other one,”— he waves his hand in the air in a vague gesture, looking thoughtful, as though trying to remember something from a very long time ago— “something about a baby shark if I recall correctly.”

“You don’t _eat_ in Hell?” She narrows her eyes, frowning a little. “Don’t you get hungry?”

He huffs an amused little puff of air. “No, of course not.” The way he says it makes it seem as though it should be obvious to her. “Things work differently downstairs; time moves faster than it does here, and for whatever reason things— at least _living_ things— don’t deteriorate.” He hesitates before adding, “Not _physically_ at least.”

Not physically, but still mentally. He was down there for _thousands of years_ , deprived of _everything_. Food, music, what else? Sleep? Showers? All the things that make life worth living….

“It’s a wonder really,” he continues, moving on with the conversation, seemingly unaware that she’s still stuck on what he’d said before. “Imagine having to feed a horde of bloody demons, and then imagine needing bathrooms… the place would be more of a mess than it already is.” He shudders, shaking his head, obviously trying to rid himself of whatever mental image he’s conjured. “It’d be a bloody nightmare.”

Suddenly she finds herself unable to maintain the small amount of distance between them as she flings herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her head in his shoulder. He starts at the unexpected movement a little more than usual, probably because he’d seemed lost in his own little world, but he quickly relaxes beneath her.

A shocked, quiet, little, “ _What are you…?”_ comes from his lips, but he trails off when she tightens her grip on him, pressing her face into the crook of his neck as she fends off the impeding tears.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, her voice muffled against his skin. “I’m sorry that you went there to protect us, to protect _me_.”

His hand comes up to settle on her back, engulfing her in his warmth, holding her against him. “It’s not your fa—"

“No,”— she pulls away, still keeping her arms around him, but enough so that she can look into his eyes— “it doesn’t matter who’s fault it was, what matters is that you’re never going back there. I’m not _letting_ you go back there.” There’s a distinct wobble in her voice that she can’t rid herself of, but she continues anyway. “Whatever consequences come, we will face them together.”

Her vision is blurred by tears that fall, dripping down her cheeks as she tries to blink them away. His hand comes up to hold her cheek, his thumb swiping across her skin, wiping away the wetness. “Together,” he parrots, a soft, simple little word that means everything and more.

From now on they are a team. _Partners_ in more ways than one.

That night they fall asleep holding each other closely. She wouldn’t want it any other way.

-

“We need to do something about your wing.” She had risen early that morning, her neck stiff from sleeping awkwardly curled against Lucifer, his arm wrapped around her middle, holding her close to him as he slumbered.

She couldn’t help waking him too when she extricated herself from his grip to go to the bathroom.

He looks at her from where he still sits on the bed, his back resting against the headboard and his wings spread at either side of him. A frown creases his face, but he looks significantly better rested than he had done the day before, and the wound at his side seems to be healing nicely. “What do you mean?”

“This,”— she stops beside his broken wing, her gaze skittering over the bone at the top that bends the wrong way— “doesn’t this hurt?”

Shuffling forwards, he peers over the side of the bed to get a better look. “It does…” he trails off, tilting his head to one side, “but it’s starting to feel a bit better than before.”

Walking around the outstretched appendage, she crouches down beside the bone, getting a closer look. She’s really not sure what exactly she’s looking at, but whatever it is, certainly isn’t right. Reaching out to touch it, she stops, looking at him over her shoulder. “May I?”

Lucifer looks a little bit hesitant, but nods, humming in agreement.

She touches around the joint carefully, her fingers probing the area around it. Like before, she’s struck by how soft it feels, not rough like its appearance may suggest. It really doesn’t take any special knowledge to know that the bone is snapped. It is very obviously broken and twisted at a sickening angle. She glances at the other wing for a quick comparison and sees that it’s different there. Yep… definitely broken. The end of his wing twitches a little bit when she touches it too close to the break. Lucifer just stays deadly still though, and she can feel his eyes on her, carefully watching her movements.

“I _think,”_ _—_ she draws out the word as she rises from the floor and turns to him— “this needs setting, and probably bandaging up so that you can’t move it while it heals.”

He sets his jaw, nodding as he looks up at her. “Alright then,”— he waves his hand, gesturing to his wing— “do that then.”

Chloe blinks, long and slow, staring at him with disbelief as he waits expectantly. “What makes you think _I_ know how to do that?”

Tilting his head to one side, he raises an eyebrow at her, his mouth opening before closing again. “Well, I… I figured you seemed like you knew what you were talking about.” He throws his hands out to his sides in an awkward little gesture.

She sighs, looking up at the ceiling as she tries to figure out what to do. “When will Linda be back?” He’d told her in the warehouse that the doctor was out of state visiting family. He hadn’t mentioned where or for how long.

“Not sure,” he says with a shrug. “I think she said next weekend, but I could be wrong.” He looks a little bit sheepish, ducking his head as he fiddles with the ring on his finger, adding, “I tend to um… _zone out_ when Linda talks sometimes.”

_Of course he does._ He’s Lucifer, why _would he listen_ to someone else talking about themselves?

“Alright.” She chews on her lip, nodding as she thinks. “Stand up,” she tells him, probably a bit abruptly if his expression is anything to go by.

The shock on his face from her sudden bossiness quickly fades into a sultry grin. “Yes ma’am,” he says, evoking yet another eye roll from her.

He shuffles to the side of the bed and manages to get to his feet, holding onto her hand for support. His side is obviously still hurting him a bit, as he slouches awkwardly.

“Okay.” She leaves him standing there, taking a few steps away, before bending down to pick up his limp wing from the floor. “I’m just going to—”

“ _OWW!”_ he yelps out, even as she barely moves his wing, crying in pain and almost falling backwards onto the bed as his other wing reacts by flapping wildly.

“ _Sorry!”_ she cries, quickly, gently setting his wing back down on the floor. “I’m sorry!”

He holds his head in his hand as he slumps back down onto the edge of the bed. She rushes to his side, feeling terrible for hurting him. “’S okay,” he replies, suddenly sounding a little bit woozy.

She crouches in front of him, her hand resting on his knee, worry brewing in her mind as she waits for him to regain himself. “Lucifer,” she says, when he looks back up at her. “I don’t think I can leave it like that.”

His eyes widen, his eyebrows creeping towards his hairline.

“What if it heals like that?”

His bullet wound had started healing overnight. And one time he’d gotten shot in the hand, the bullet had made a hole right through his palm, and it had healed in a matter of days. There’s no way that didn’t break bones. So, she has no doubt in her mind that his wing will be healed before Linda can see to it.

And if it heals like this… she’s not sure he will be able to move it again. He’ll be crippled, unable to put his wings away. Then what will become of him?

“I think I should try to set it.”

Lucifer visibly pales at the suggestion. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

She hums noncommittally, worrying her lip between her teeth as she nods. Her eyes are fixed on the wing, _her task._ All she has to do is hold both sides of the break, pull it gently and slowly move it back so that it’s aligned, right? It can’t be that difficult can it? “I don’t see any other option here.” She tilts her head to one side. “Unless you can call Amenadiel.”

He’d told her he was away too, in Heaven apparently, and that trying to contact him was useless, but it’s worth a shot.

“Even if I could contact Amenadiel, he won’t be able to bloody help.” He scoffs. “He’s useless.”

Chloe frowns at that. “Can’t he like, _heal you_ or something? Doesn’t he have like… powers or something, like you do?”

He raises a sceptical and almost judgemental eyebrow. “No, he can’t just _heal me._ Although it would be bloody convenient, wouldn’t it?”

She clears her throat, feeling a little bit stupid for asking. “Alright then, I guess you’re stuck with me.” Wringing her hands together, she tries to think about what she has to do. She should gather bandages for afterwards, and also plug her phone in. There’s probably a helpful WikiHow article that can give her some information on setting a broken bone.

Twenty minutes later, after she’s collected everything she needs and has googled as much as she possibly can about setting a broken bone, she stands before where he lies on the bed, sweat beading at her temple. To say she’s nervous is an understatement. Lucifer doesn’t look much better, lying with his head back on a stack of pillows, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide and fingers moving restlessly at his side.

“Alright,” she starts, kneeling on the bed beside him, where she’s managed to lay his broken wing along the length of it, “this is going to hurt. I’m sorry.”

A nervous little laugh spills from his lips. “Just get it over and done with, Detective.”

“If you say so…”

She takes a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart as she places her hands at either side of the obvious fracture. _God_ what is she doing? She’s so woefully ill-equipped for this. But what is she supposed to do? Just leave him like this?

She can do it. She just has to keep telling herself that.

The information in one of the articles she’d found was actually quite helpful. If she just follows the instructions, it should all be fine. And apparently the more muscles are around a bone, the harder it is to set. His wing almost looks like a bare bone, save for the membrane that covers it. So, _theoretically_ it shouldn’t be too difficult to set.

But theory isn’t reality, is it?

She makes sure she has a tight grip on either side of the break. Her fingers can almost reach completely around the bone, which helps.

“You ready?” she asks him one last time. Her heart thumps hard in her chest as she awaits his reply.

He shuffles a bit before answering. “Yes, just bloody well do it.”

So, she pulls. Gentle at first, like the article said, pulling the two sides of the bone apart. He still screams, seemingly unable to stop himself. She had nothing to give him for the pain, not even anything to drink as his bar lay in ruins.

She can feel the bone moving back to where it should be, but the force she’s applying isn’t enough. So, she pulls harder and harder, trying her best not to stop despite how he writhes in agony, his legs bucking beside her and his other wing spasming. He screams through gritted teeth as she works, but he must pass out from the pain at some point, because the agonising screeches suddenly stop, and his legs cease their wild movements. It’s easier to work in the silence, although she worries about him, resisting the urge to check if he’s okay, at least until she’s done.

Suddenly, when she’s starting to lose hope that this may not work after all, that maybe she’s just not strong enough to set it, the bone seems to just… _pop_ into place.

Carefully setting his wing back down, she scurries to his side, pressing her fingers to his neck just to check that he’s still with her. Thankfully, his pulse thrums healthily against the tips of her still shaking fingers. His breathing seems fine too, as he lies there snoring softly.

She takes a breath of relief, almost collapsing into the bed right next to him. That was _insane_. It’s hard to believe she actually did it at all. But she’s not done yet. She still needs to bandage it or… _something_ to stop him from moving it. And they could both benefit from some TLC. She’s not exactly sure what she can do about the little tears that mar the membranes, but she can at least clean the blood and dirt from them.

A quick trip back to the closet in the bathroom and she has some more clean cloths to use. She dunks one in the bucket that now contains fresh warm water and pulls it out, wringing it until it’s only slightly damp. Then, she gently wipes over the thin membranes, working methodically, staring with the smallest and working her way along. They are surprisingly easy to clean as it happens, the smooth, almost leather-like landscape seemingly unable to hold onto the dirt as she wipes it away.

There’s something… therapeutic about the task. Something about caring for what he thinks is the worst part of himself makes her heart soar.

After they’re as clean as she can get them, she moves on to trying to figure out how to immobilise the broken one. She doesn’t exactly have a lot to work with, bandage wise or knowledge wise, and the thing is so big that she can’t find anything suitable enough to splint it. By the time she’s done though, it doesn’t look too bad. She manages to fold the wing most of the way and wrap the bandages around it in such a way that he’d be unable to move it even if he could.

He’s awake again, gazing at her sleepily by the time she’s done. She presses a kiss to his cheek and apologises for the pain she’s caused him again. He still seems a little bit out of it, his movements sluggish and his reactions slightly unresponsive, so she covers him with the plush comforter and pulls her fingers through his hair, telling him to go to sleep, and that she will be back to check on him later.

He drifts off almost immediately, and she stands there for a moment, just watching him slumber peacefully.

After that, she retrieves her dirty clothes from the floor, pulling on her pants and opting to remain in Lucifer’s shirt. She’ll get it back to him eventually. She finds his phone and plugs it in, leaving it on the table beside the bed with a note telling him to call her if he needs anything.

She could stay here with him, but he’s clearly out for the count, and she needs to go home eventually. She does have a daughter that she needs to pick up at some point, after all. So, grabbing her phone, she glances over her shoulder at the sleeping Devil, _her sleeping Devil_ , and she leaves.

_Epilogue_

She visits him that night and everyday after that, sometimes twice if she has the time. If it weren’t for the fact that she makes him mortal, slowing his healing, she would be there much more frequently. But the thought of him being stuck in the penthouse, mostly on his own, for any longer than necessary isn’t something she can abide.

They decided that it was best for him to keep his wing as still as possible, just for a while, to give it a chance to heal, which means not trying to put it away. And of course, that means that he can’t go anywhere until it’s healed. They also settled on her staying at her own apartment, just to give him extra time to recover. As much as it pains her to be away from him after all that has happened.

So, she brings him food, sometimes takeout, and sometimes she cooks for him. She makes sure he has everything he needs, checks his injuries; basically does whatever she can for him in her time there.

In the first few days they make some attempt to clean up his apartment. Some of the furniture is unsalvageable, but most of things are still usable. Even just with all the shattered glass gone, the place feels miles more hospitable than it had done. There’s still damage to the floor and the walls, and scratches on the furniture, but she’s sure Lucifer will sort that out when he’s able to.

After that, a lot of the time, there isn’t really much for her to do. They eat together and then they just spend time with each other, doing whatever they please until the day draws to a close and she has to leave him.

But the time they spend together is like a little escape from reality. Every day when she’s away from him, she finds herself watching the clock, just waiting to get back to him. It just feels so… comfortable to be there with him. Finally, she feels like he’s _really_ back.

And they are together, finally, after so much wanting. After all the pain and heartbreak, finally they can just be together. They are still taking it slow, but the casual touches, the kisses, the _intimacy_ that has settled between them feels… right. Going to be with him, in a way, feels like going _home._

It’s a little over two weeks later that she emerges in the penthouse, her arms occupied with takeout boxes from the Chinese place that she’d stopped at on the way over, and spots him leaning at the railing on the balcony, his back to her.

It doesn’t take long to notice the difference today. His wings are _gone._ In the previous few days, he’d been moving them more and more, expanding his range of movement, so it was only a matter of time before he would be able to put them away completely. And it would seem that time is now.

As she approaches, she sets down the food on the coffee table. Now she’s closer she can see that there’s a cigarette in his hand, the smoke drifting lazily up and dispersing into the atmosphere. The sun is just setting, casting him almost as a silhouette against the golden light.

She stops on the edge of the living room, just beside the glass, smiling as she takes him all in. It doesn’t seem like he’s noticed her, and that’s okay; for a moment she’s content just to watch him. Just to revel in this moment. Now that he can put his wings away, he’s no longer confined to his penthouse, and who knows where they will go from here.

Back to work, she supposes, but she hopes deep down that they can keep some of this, some of the time they’ve spent just being together. She wants to keep those nights where they just watch tv and cuddle on the couch while they eat takeout. She wants to keep that comfort, no matter what comes next.

“Hey,” she greets him softly, making him jump just a little. He’d obviously been lost in a world of his own.

He turns slightly to look at her, his elbows resting on the railing, cigarette held loosely between his fingers. “Hi,” he replies with a gentle smile as she settles beside him, leaning more against him than the railing.

She gazes out over the city below, watching as the sun slips below the horizon and a deep blue starts to leech in the sky. “You put your wings away?”

He takes a long drag of his cigarette, humming. The smoke curls tendrils around his nose as wisps escape from his lips.

“How are they feeling?” Despite being able to move them, he’d still had pain there. She suspects it’ll stay that way for a while. Or maybe not— she still doesn’t know what happens to his wings when they aren’t here. “Does it still hurt?”

Tilting his head to one side, he replies, “A little,” with a half shrug. “It’s much more bearable now that they’re away though.”

He wraps his arm around her waist, allowing her to lean into him more heavily, resting her head on his shoulder. “That’s good, I’m glad.” Slipping her arm around his waist in turn, she lets her eyes flutter shut, just basking in the moment. In _him._

The warmth he exudes seeps into her bones, lulling her into a peaceful, tranquil state.

“Thank you,” he says suddenly, his tone slightly rough.

She opens her eyes, frowning as she perks up, resting her chin on his shoulder instead. “What for?”

He shrugs a little, jostling her, and flicks the smouldering butt of his cigarette over the balcony, his eyes tracking it until it falls out of view. “For looking after me.” He looks out across the landscape, his gaze distant. “You didn’t hav—”

“Hey,” she says, cutting him off, knowing with absolute certainty where he was going with that. Reaching out, she takes his face in her hand. Gently guiding him to look at her. “I was just returning the favour.”

The expression that dawns his face carries a hint of sadness, that shadow that still hangs over him making an appearance. He’d spoken to Linda on the phone about returning to therapy, and he’s had a video session with her already, so he’s making a start, chipping away at the darkness that lingers inside him. But there’s still a long way to go.

She will be there every step of the way though.

“And even if I weren’t,” she adds, knowing that he could use the extra reassurance, “I would do it again, and again.” A smile spreads across her face, mirrored by a slightly weaker one on his. “Because I love you Lucifer, I’ll always be here to take care of you.”

He sighs, his features relaxing, the smile on his face becoming more tender. “You know,” he starts, shaking his head a little bit, “when you use my own words against me like that, it’s really quite disarming.”

“I know,” she says, a smirk gracing her lips before fading to something softer. “I really do mean it though.”

Taking her hand in his own, he turns it over in his grasp, pulling his thumb over her knuckles. “I know you do.” He pauses for the briefest of moments, his dark eyes twinkling in the last light of the day as he looks at her like she’s the only thing in the universe that matters to him. “I do too.”

Those three words are enough to make her heart flutter. She doesn’t expect grand professions of love from him, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because she doesn’t need them.

She _knows_.

She knows he loves her.

And that… that is _all_ that matters.

“Come on,” she says, leaning up on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips before tugging at his hand, pulling him towards the living room. “I brought Chinese.”

He smiles, the softest, most genuine smile she’s seen on his face in weeks. “Brilliant,” he exclaims as he allows himself to be led towards the sofa. “I’m _starving._ ”

She scoffs as she rolls her eyes, the beaming smile that’s settled on her face not abating. “When are you _not_ starving?”

That night they laugh, they eat, and they enjoy being with each other.

And for once, everything is just right.

And so, she makes a vow to herself. No matter what he needs, no matter what lies ahead, or how hard things become, she will always do it all again if it means that they can be happy. 

_FIN_

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Follow me on Twitter if you fancy having a chat about Lucifer, Deckerstar or anything really [@kaykat666](https://twitter.com/kaykat666) or on Tumblr @kaykat-loves-luci <3


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